


FAULT LINES

by Roughnight



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Finger Sucking, Fingerfucking, Gun Kink, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, John Watson/Others - Freeform, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-23 00:39:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 61,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/616139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roughnight/pseuds/Roughnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He made love and all he could feel was hurt.<br/> </p><p>John Watson was slipping through the cracks and he needs to save himself if Sherlock wouldn't be having a wake up call anytime soon.</p><p>~*~</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Them

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nofavrell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nofavrell/gifts).



  
****

 

_“I’d like to make myself believe_

_That planet Earth turns slowly_

_It’s hard to say that I’d rather stay awake when I’m asleep_

_Coz everything is never as it seems,”_

_\--fireflies_

  

 

John tasted the coppery metal tang of his own blood as the flesh of his poor lips finally gave in from the pressure of his own sinking teeth. He hadn’t realized he’d been biting them, too occupied on committing debauchery in his own little room for all the world. The sight beneath him was simply priceless and endearing and the more he looked at the other man at his arms, at the lithe, flawless pale form openly needing and pleading and crumbling, the more it was that his heart sank. A ball of unease and insecurity had amassed inside his stomach dangerously and it made him want to cry all the more. And cry he did. He took a deep breath before pushing down brusquely and impaling himself with his lover’s warmth, a little more forceful than he’d intended, biting his lips once again as he did so. He was making love with this beautiful enigma of a man, probably making himself the luckiest ofall and he worried  _still_ , unable to quench the nagging agitation at his stomach. He made love and all he could feel was  _hurt_.  

 

Cold sweaty palms brushed at his flushed cheeks lightly before staying there and pressing firmly yet gently at the hollow of his cheeks. The other man was now staring at him, steel silver eyes penetrating and scrutinizing. “What’s wrong?” The other man breathed.  

 

John stared at him, stared at his calm inquisitive expression, at his eyes lusting and desiring beneath the raven curled fringes. All John managed to say was, “you’re beautiful”, which was truer than any other thing he could’ve said at that moment. 

  

“You’ve been spacing out.”

   

“--I’m sorry.” John gushed out carelessly, a little bit forceful in the wake of wishing that the other man not try to find out what he has been thinking about, yet knowing full well that his lover would know about it the way he gets to know everything. “I mean I was—”

   

It was the other man who’d hushed him just as abruptly this time as the other thrashed his own hips upward, the full length of his cock burying inside John’s ass. “Sherlock,” John gasped, part startled at the sudden contact and part from sheer pleasure as Sherlock’s manhood hit his prostrate. Sherlock was thrusting up towards him demandingly and insistently since John had seized moving when his musings got the better of him. John realized this must’ve been the other reason why he was feeling agitated. Sherlock had come on to him boldly and needy and a bit rash. John thought that the other man had never been like this before. No, John definitely  _knows_. And the sudden change in this demand for flesh and contact by Sherlock frightenedhim to the bones, like some foreboding to a world ending. To John, the world could just fuck itself and end instead of the only other reason that can make him so very afraid to happen. He’s never been afraid of many things after hitting hit by a bullet, mind you. 

  

John gritted his teeth a lot more forcefully before taking hold of their rhythms. Screw his worries. He grabbed both of Sherlock’s hands from his thighs, before managing to hold them by one hand and pinning them to the mattress above Sherlock’s head. John nibbled at the hollow base on the consulting detective’s neck straight down to the clavicles, licking and marking and claiming. With his left hand that was not used to pin Sherlock’s wrists, John steadied the other man’s movement by laying his palm flat over his chest. Sherlock took a deep breath before managing to stay still and John rewarded him by tweaking a pink nipple and biting at the other one. The detective hissed and moaned and thrashed vigorously under his John’s caress. Sherlock violently nudged his thighs where John’s ass had rested as some desperate call for attention.  _“John.”_  John was well tuned enough with the consulting detective’s antics and vague signals to know that it could have well been an echoing  _“please”._   

 

John reached up and kissed Sherlock hard and savagely, claiming those supple lips he knew at the back of his mind won’t be his forever. Sherlock was kissing him just as equally as hard and brutal, teeth clacking and tongues dancing for muscular control. He was heaving and he was enjoying this and he knew it wouldn’t take long before he reaches his limit now. Sherlock was at the same state. John could tell from the other man’s trembling and from the way he was stifling his groans but failing. 

  

_“John—”_

   

John groaned for an answer, knowing that their many sexual encounters had already given Sherlock the necessary familiarity to understand every moan and groan and every bit of unintelligible and incoherent bit of noises. He gave Sherlock one last flitting kiss, the barest of touch, before heaving himself up once more and only stopping as the head of the detective’s cock was just about his sphincter . John was still pinning Sherlock’s wrists immobile, his left hand pushing at Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock was heaving silently now, his calculating eyes dazed with desire, his pupils blown wide with lust, his stillness all focused on John.  

 

Without further ado, John pushed down into Sherlock’s manhood, flesh slapping wetly and loudly against flesh, before pulling up only to hit down again only a little bit harder. They both danced gaspingly to the tune of their own breathing. Repeatedly claiming and being claimed. They rocked and they swam and they sang as the need for release came closer. John could feel the abuse of his own entrance, could feel the sting at his perineum but he continued his relentless pace that was so hard and jagged it could’ve caused bruising and bleeding and wounding, yet the act so sensual that he could no longer feel the pain. He repeatedly sank down roughly, each one taking in the whole length, his ass hitting Sherlock’s balls. Then John looked over at Sherlock beneath him, saw that the other man had also been looking at him through slanted eyes, and John suddenly reached his own release with one last drop. Sherlock tensed briefly at John’s sight and climaxed, following suit. John fell on top of the detective still impaled, their limbs limp and warm and trembling. They were a bundle of parts, sweaty and sticky and dirty, and they remained like that for a long time, nothing breaking the silence but their own guzzles for air.

   

Sherlock’s so warm and the flesh underneath John was so familiar that he’d have remained where he was if only he was allowed, not minding the sticky fluid sandwiched somewhere between the heated flesh of their stomachs and some that were dripping from his ass. He lifted himself free from the softened, sensitized flesh, his whole mind concentrating solely to give his arms strength for they needed every bit of effort to lift his own exhausted body. Then Sherlock grabbed his face tightly, reached up and gave him one final kiss—one so hard, smacking and without tongue, before pulling away to say one word that John realized he dreaded to hear at this moment.  

 

“Thank you.” 

  

John’s heart sank, his own little world collapsing. A lump had formed painfully at his throat and he wanted to vomit and choke and he thought he could do both at the same time, that is, choke and die from his own vomit. Those worries and agitation he’s been feeling since the beginning had been right to have bombarded him in the first place after all. Sherlock had  _never_  thanked him for sex. It has always been “I love you” or “great” or “amazing”. You don’t thank the one you love for sex. You thank people for sex when it’s like something you ordered, something you bought like a burger when you’re hungry or a pie when you just wanted to try it. It  _was never_  a “thank you” for them after their love making. He hoped Sherlock hadn’t realized the implication, that maybe he’d just forgotten their own little truce, that maybe his brain had just been wired and juggled because of their copulation.  

 

But John knew that Sherlock knew what he’s said and done and that there was nothing for John to do but to shed silent tears. 

 


	2. Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn’t like John didn’t know… but this doesn’t lessen the hurt that he felt to recognize that Sherlock would just leave him, or has already left him, or has chosen another man of the past over him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Image in this chapter was crafted by NOFAVRELL. You should check out her works, ^^

****

 

*~*~*

 

 

_“You would not believe your eyes_

_If ten million fireflies_

_Leap up the wall as I fell asleep_

_Coz they feel the open air_

_And leave tear drops everywhere_

_You think me rude but I would just stand_

_And stare,”_

 

 

  

 

It wasn’t like John didn’t know… but this doesn’t lessen the hurt that he felt to recognize that Sherlock would just leave him, or has already left him, or has chosen another man of the past over him. He knew. He’s braced himself for it but you just never get used to this sort of thing. No one ever gets used to idea of being left behind by someone you love for the world. He was second. He has always been second to Sherlock’s heart over a man he’d struggle to win against. On the detective’s part, Sherlock has always been true and honest to him and this infuriates John even more because there was no one to blame for this, no one to point your finger at. Sherlock had said even from the beginning that he was married to his work and that he was waiting for another man. It was John who’d been willing and who’d wanted to be  _the_  etcetera, to be the reserve, all to get the chance to be with the consulting detective he’d met over a get-together sort of party, and John had loved it bitterly so, every minute of it. He didn’t like the Sherlock back then when they’d first met, Sherlock who’d been drugged to his eyeballs of cocaine but he loves every bit of Sherlock nonetheless.  

 

John’s hand was shaking as he held his mug to his lips, pleased with the hot liquid searing his lips. He was tired and weary and most of all, he felt like shit. He foresaw a heavy migraine coming. The throbbing over his temples was a killer. He hadn’t really cried  _properly_  last night. Tears and hurt and pain sprung but he hadn’t really cried. He must’ve been so exhausted that after the initial tears had rolled down his cheeks, he had fallen to a long uninterrupted dreamless slumber. He’d woken up to the sound of glasses and metals clanking together and walked out of his room to find Sherlock already up and poking at his microscope. They hadn’t really talked about anything, about what could possibly be the most important thing between them, and Sherlock never really stated that it was time for John to leave. The ex-army doctor silently went about his business of preparing his cuppa before going to their sitting room and settling down his chair. Sipping his coffee, trying to think, John barely noticed as Sherlock rose up from the kitchen table and made his way place a plate of bacon and eggs on the small coffee table in front of their sofa. John raised an eyebrow in response at the tall detective who’d sunk down at the arm chair opposite John’s.

  

“Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock simply said as if it explained everything. Mrs Hudson had recently taken into a habit of sharing whatever it is she cooked for her Saturday breakfast in exchange for asking John to fix her leaks in 221A whenever necessary. 

 

John was really glad that Sherlock has not yet gotten any texts from Lestrade. With no case to take up the detective’s time, John and Sherlock could have all the talk they want. And he had a feeling that it would get awfully awry. 

 

“I was planning for a take-out but Mrs Hudson was very prompt with her routines as usual.” Sherlock said brightly as he spooned a piece of bacon to himself. 

 

John was planning to say that no, -Sherlock wasn’t really truthful about getting that take-out because he already knew full well that Mrs Hudson was going to share her meal and that Sherlock was probably all hitched up with his experiments so early in the morning to be bothered about the concerns of the living- but realized that this isn’t really the conversation they both had to have, so John let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding before staring at Sherlock and meeting his eyes imploringly.  _We have to talk_. 

 

Sherlock met his gaze and understood. Of course he did. He was the very definition of  _‘deducer’_  if there ever was a word, or if there will come a time it’ll be finally incorporated into a dictionary; And even if Sherlock wasn’t the great genius that he is, they’ve been together for months already he would’ve been too dumb not to recognize and understand what the other wanted. John furrowed his brows gloomily and bit the side of his lips, bracing for whatever inevitable they have to face. Things like this were never easy.

  

“Are we doing this now or are we doing this after eating? You haven’t really touched your food and we hadn’t really eaten last nig—”

  

“Sherlock,” John gritted as he took a lungful of steadying breaths. “Let’s have it now. I want to hear what you want to say  _now_.”

  

Sherlock looked at him, inhaled subtly and, in stride, answered with the most expressionless face he could muster. “Next Tuesday at 1400 hours.”

  

John raised an eyebrow, his mind too beaten and tired to actually try to be witty and pretend he knew what the detective was talking about. He kept his lips pursed to encourage the taller man to elaborate. 

 

It pained Sherlock equally to have to say whatever it was that he was going to say and seeing his face, John suddenly understood without hearing it from the other man. It just dawned on him like a bucket of cold water poured over his head. It was like an ebb of pain somewhere in his gut, unfurling and twisting and stretching and knotting. “He’s coming back on Tuesday.”

  

Suddenly, John’s throat ached. It burned and dried that even after he’d taken a gulp of his hot tea, it still felt withered. He could feel his own eyes well up and the lines of their table mantle had become blurry and jagged. He wasn’t gonna cry now, he told himself. But his tears betrayed him and it was all John could do to try to stop himself from shaking. It was a small mercy that Sherlock didn’t say the name. The other guy’s fucking name. John wanted to laugh dryly at the black humour. 

  

This time, contrary to his usual expression, Sherlock failed to try to act detached. As much as he wanted their break up to be swift and less painful for John, he knew he couldn’t act crueller. Sherlock reached out his hand, in an attempt to console the doctor, but the other had recoiled from his touch. John looked repulsed and bodily flinched from the detective’s hand that Sherlock withdrew his limb. The ex-army doctor has never been disgusted of him but today could be the first.

  

“It hasn’t even been a year.” John managed to croak. “It hasn’t even been  _seven months_  for god’s sake.” John hated himself for saying it. Sherlock hated repetition and the doctor knows that the detective was already thinking about it. Sherlock’s been probably counting up to the seconds when it comes to that god forsaken man but it was all John’s mind could come up with. He had been telling himself and had been conditioning himself under pretence that he could claim Sherlock’s heart wholly as long as he beats Sherlock and the dirt’s previous 7 months relationship. It had become some sort of a goal, some sort of helpless hope and now he wasn’t even gonna get that.  No. It wasn’t enough that the other guy’s always been the winner for owning Sherlock’s heart, he also gets to have the longest relationship with the detective. John knew it was futile to be holding on to some sort of contest he only made up inside his mind to fuel his blind hope but for it to be taken away too was too much of an insult.

  

“John—”

  

“It’s unfair.” John hissed despite his failing self-control. “He  _wasn’t supposed_  to get back after a year. He  _wasn’t supposed_  to taint our time together. He was  _supposed_  to let the chips fall in their own places!  _It’s unfair, Sherlock, and you know it_!” 

 

“I know. And I’m sorry I---”

  

“ _You’re not sorry!_ ” John snapped, slapping his hands against the table as he rose from his chair.  Sherlock was looking at him with gentled eyes.  _Pity._  John thought it was pity in the detective’s eyes. He gasped for air and was holding himself back from sniffling. “You knew he was coming back weeks ago. You knew for a long time Sherlock and you’ve been enjoying every minute of it!”

  

John counted to ten with long whistling exhales and with resigned, gentler voice continued, “I may not be much of a genius like you, Sherlock, but I do notice when you stay glued to your phone that you don’t talk to me even when you’re not in your Mind Palace. You weren’t gonna tell me in the first place, were you?” 

 

 _“For god’s sake we’ve been over this!”_ Sherlock snarled, rising to his feet. “Don’t make it sounds like you were played or that it was my fault, John! You knew this was coming!”

   

It was the perfect slap on the face should anyone encounter one. John thought he could hear his insides squeezed to bleed dry. There wasn’t really anything to talk about. John clutched bit at his cheeks and closed his fists in terms of bracing himself. “I’ve been hoping for seven months to pass.” He choked helplessly, his jaws set tight.

   

“I didn’t promise I’d stay with you even if we reach that long…” Sherlock whispered ever so gently and matter-of-factly.  _True_. 

  

John paced towards their bed room, not caring whether Sherlock followed him or not. He raised his hands and covered his face. This was all too painful for him. But he’d chosen it. This was a grave he’d dug by his own, for his own. He felt rather than saw Sherlock’s shadow loom over him but the detective kept his silence. John was appreciative of the illusion of peace the silence granted as he grabbed hold of his shit. 

  

“Do you love me?” John asked, almost in a whisper, after a few heart beats, his face still on his hands.  

 

“Yes.” Sherlock simply answered.  

 

“But you’re still choosing him.”

   

“Yes…”

   

There was just silence and stillness for a long time, neither one of them moved nor spoke. John was distressed but he was feeling numb and mind drained enough to keep it all at bay and do what he does best. He was a fucking soldier for nothing, after all.  John breathed and reckoned that he smelled Sherlock’s unique scent. Then he was pulling Sherlock by the collar towards him and was kissing him bitingly, all nipping and licking and sucking. Sherlock didn’t kiss him back but he didn’t pull away either. When John finally let go, they stood frozen and tired facing but not looking at each other. Finally it was time for John to let go and be the person he ought to be.  

 

“Finish you breakfast,” John said more softly. “You haven’t eaten anything last night too. I’ll be in my room. I can be out within the day.”

   

Sherlock’s eyes widened, almost scandalized. John was almost a little amused at the play of surprise on the consulting detective’s face. Sherlock seemed to have hesitated a bit before plunging forward. “You’re going to leave?”  

 

John gave a once over at Sherlock’s deep frown and furrowed brows but otherwise remained quiet.

   

Sherlock looked back at him, scrutinizing, before his silver eyes widened in comprehension. “Oh! No, John. There’s no need for you to leave.”

  

“ _Pardon_?”

   

“Your room, John!” Sherlock drawled with exasperation, “The one upstairs. You could always go back to it. There’s clearly no need for you to move out nor do I want you to.” Then Sherlock, the git, tried to lighten things out by smiling that awkward smile of his that John used to find adorable but at this moment abhorred.

   

“You want me to stay here with you even after you get back with him?” John patiently elaborated in an attempt to clear any misunderstanding despite the grating nerves he could feel at the back of his eyes. 

  

“Of course.” Sherlock quipped, eyebrows in confusion as if it was John who was babbling up some insane, ridiculous stuff.  

 

“ _You utter bastard_.” John hissed immediately soon after the detective’s answer came out of his mouth.

   

John strode out of the room passing by Sherlock briskly without a word before the other could catch up to him. His hands were trembling so he fisted them out and stuffed them inside his pockets. He started with a short quick dash to get out of the bedroom that suddenly felt stifling and disgusting until he was with a fast trot that turned into a run as he stomped down the stairs.  

 

He needed to get out of the place and away from Sherlock fast.

   

 

He’ll never be fast enough.

 


	3. The Drinker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There were a hundred of reasons why what his sister has been suggesting was wrong in so many levels. He was hurting and drunk and miserable and angry and he most probably will regret a number of things in the morning including an earth shattering headache.

 

 

*~*~*

 

_Count backwards_

_Before you get too heated and turned on_

_You should have learned your lesson all of them, times before_

_You've been bruised, you've been broken_

_Then there's my mind saying think before you go_

_Through that door, it could lead you nowhere_

_(This guy)_

_Has got you all romantic, crazy in your head_

_Do you think I'd listen, no I don't care_

_\---Red Blooded W._

 

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

 

John was already chugging down his second pint of beer by the time the blonde lady took a sit on his booth, a platter of fried assortments and another bucket of malts in tow. She was wearing a pair of ragged jeans and what otherwise could’ve been a nondescript shirt if it wasn’t for the deep V of its collar that revealed more than a tease of the cleavage underneath. Her blue eyes were already boring down at him under arched brows, her painted lips curved diagonally in an attempt of hiding a smirk. All in all, John thought that his sister looked rather fit these days as she settled herself comfortably directly in front of him with an elbow on the wooden table, her cheeks resting on the balls of her palm. 

 

Harriet Watson mutely took a continuous swig from a bottle, only dropping it back down the table when she’s swallowed the lost drop. Wiping at her mouth with the back of her wrist, she then looked at John challengingly. John wasn’t really inclined to start a discussion about his sister’s drinking addiction when he himself was already getting his ass drunk at the moment and especially not when it was him who initiated a month-long-overdue contact with his sister-- in  _a **Pub**_. Taking another bottle resolutely from the bucket Harry has brought, John arced a corner of his lips in a failed attempt of a smile. “Hi, Harry.” John greeted.

  

Harry snorted as she rolled her eye balls, her eyes bright with lucidity that’s only in attendance with her when the percentage of alcohol hasn’t picked up yet in her bloodstream. John thought he ought to feel guilty to have called in his sister when she clearly hasn’t been drinking. 

 

“Really,  _Johnny_. We don’t see each other for a month and that’s the best you can say?”

  

“Shut up, Harry.” John mumbled as he emptied another bottle of beer.

 

“Yes, because you called my gorgeous ass in here the soonest you recovered from your hibernation just so I could shut up and watch you _drink_.” She retorted. “That is,  _unless_  you just wanted a sparring partner with drinking in this stinky, dirty of a  _Pub_.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste at the word. “I should definitely drag you to the ones I go to.”

  

“Piss off. I kind of like this Pub.”

  

“ _Right_. So tell me, lil bro, what’s the trouble in paradise? Got that detective of yours pregnant? _OH God_ , are  _you_ pregnant?”

  

John sputtered on his drink before choking and entering a fit of coughing. He looked at his sister with widened eyes and mouth opened in an expression of surprise. He licked at his lips and started to bombard Harry with a question when his sister waved a hand vigorously and clumsily at him as her other hand begun tipping another bottle empty into her mouth.

  

“You’re not the only gay here, Johnny. Of course I  _knew_.” 

 

“What?”

  

“Of your pregnancy.”

  

“ _What?_ ” John felt compelled to ask yet again. He was reminded of why precisely he’s been sort of avoiding contact with his sister. Harry’s not a very good company when drunk but she’s also a pain in the ass when sober. Harry has the habit of talking like shit and in circles and in an almost always directionless manner. John thinks she’s been doing it deliberately at him. 

 

“Kidding!” She grinned like a feline, her eyes crazy with humor. “You  _know_ , it doesn’t need a detective to figure out about your arrangement with  _your_  detective. You’ve been practically a married man the moment you moved in with your flat mate.” She narrated smugly, her chin turned upwards in a proud huff. “So I’m not the only gay in the family.  _Done_. I’m actually a little offended you didn’t deign me worthy enough of your secret when I’ve known of your bisexuality since before the army.”

  

“Oh mother of—” John groaned as he swept a hand over his face in an attempt to rearrange the huge irritated frown that had somehow settled the soonest Harry opened her mouth. “ _You knew_?”

  

“I just said I did.” Harry shrugged as she reached out for another bottle, the platter of food still completely ignored. “Move on,  _Johnny_. I knew about the magazine you kept in your school locker and about your little crush with that Murray fella—his name’s Billy wasn’t it? I just wasn’t really sure if you acted upon your sexuality is all.” She quipped. “But tonight sort of confirmed it.” Harry, of course, had the gall to laugh mockingly.

  

“Harry—” John called, his voice low and almost growling in an attempt to reprimand her.

 

“But you didn’t call me to talk about your sexuality crisis or about your little first ‘ _crushies’_  and experience,” Harry continued relentlessly, both of her elbows digging on the table as her hands  supported both of her flushed cheeks, her face now leaning desperately closer to John. “You’re here to talk about your detective. Hence, the question: who got pregnant?”

   

John swallowed and stared at his sister for a few beats as he mulled over the choices of snapping at Harry for her  _appropriate_  display of sisterly love when he needed it or giving out a dry laugh over her craziness.

 

John settled for a sniff.

 

“Pregnant?” He asked. “Really, Harry, is that the best you can guess at, or the best of your idea of a joke?” John finally smiled, as a sign of acquiescence with his sister’s antics before he flagged down the waiter for another pint. 

 

“I’m not the one who wanted to talk, Johnny, so just talk.” She said as she lied back on her stool, a bottle of beer quickly following her mouth. 

 

John bit at his lips before sighing in defeat “You’re right. It’s Sherlock.”

  

Harry, bless her soul, had just remained quiet as she lazily consumed their liquors and stared with glazed eyes at John. It was already difficult to talk about and it would be incredibly more so had Harry continued with her snippets and misplaced retorts. John just badly wanted to get it out of his lungs, get it out of his system so he could finally attempt to sort himself out. 

 

“He’s going to get back with another guy.” John started, the heaviness that had remained idle somewhere in his gut now creeping upwards and tightening at his chest. “See, he was single but wasn’t technically so when we first met. He’s been sort of waiting for someone else…” John felt his throat burn and it wasn’t from the alcohol. He was thankful for the interruption as the young waiter brought down a pint in front of him. He smiled a ‘thanks’ to the other guy in an attempt to distract himself from the verge of breaking down. The waiter’s face brightened and smiled back at him before striding away towards a different booth. John took large gulps of the alcohol before turning his face back at Harry who’d remained content in her own stillness, waiting patiently for John.

  

“This other guy’s apparently coming back within the week and Sherlock’s choosing him.” John continued resolutely, his eyes avoiding Harry’s. “I’ve always known. He’s told me before and I knew what I was going into but…”

  

“You’re in love with him.” Harry whispered, almost gently as she leaned closer. 

 

“Yes.” John croaked, angry at his own voice for cracking the way it did. He finished the pint in one go before dropping the glass on the table and taking in a lungful of air. “I sort of made myself believe that this fucking day would never come, or that it would take a really long time— _at least longer than this_ —, or that he would at least choose me.”  John continued. “He didn’t even fucking hesitate, Harry.” John finished helplessly as he raked his hand at his hair. He was finding it hard to breath now and his eyes stung but it was probably helped with the amount of alcohol he’d already ingested. He needed  _more_.

  

Harry was already flagging signals at the young waiter before John could and he realized that they’ve somehow swiftly consumed all the bottles and pints of alcohol on their table, the food untouched. “Yet you were always telling me not to dig my own grave.” Harry commented kindly.

  

John’s own face soured in distaste before letting out a bitter chuckle. “I did dig a grave of my own in this, didn’t I?”

  

“That, you did. He’s a bastard.”

 

 “I’m your brother; of course he’s a bastard to you. I told you he’d told me from the beginning he was waiting for someone else. An _ex_ of some sort.” John let his head fall down on the table, his right cheek resting against the cool wood. “I’m a wreck, Harry.” He slurred. The accumulated alcohol hitting him on full force as he finally laid down his head.

  

John’s eyes fluttered shut as he felt Harry’s warm hands tousle his hair delicately. “Why did you allow yourself to fall in love with a man who’s self-proclaimed taken, Johnny?” Harry murmured.

  

“He’s brilliant, and sexy, and amazing, and beautiful, and he does me _fantastically_ **.”** John giggled at his last description, his mouth now a little more loose. “And he said he loves me.” John bit out, almost as an afterthought, almost as a secret he shouldn’t have shared. 

 

Harry’s hand stilled from its caress. “He  _loves_  you?” Harry asked almost incredulously. “He’s ditching  _you_.”

  

John opened his eyes as Harry’s words slapped him on his face. It fucking hurt like hell and he knew he couldn’t blame Harry and let her take responsibility for it. “He said he loves me, not that he’s in love with me, Harry.” 

 

John hated himself. He hated to use some mucked up phrases that he couldn’t really understand himself nor try to explain to anyone to and he thought that he probably shouldn’t defending Sherlock the way he indirectly was doing.  A tantalizing bulge decorated with a golden zipper obscured his view and made him forget of the next words he’d plan on telling Harry. In front of him was what without a doubt, a very detailed shape of a cock covered by leather trousers with a fucking golden zipper. John reckoned that he could grab the poking metal with his teeth if he just inched his face a little closer.

  

Harry’s hand pulled at his hair tightly, bringing him back to his senses. Startled, John raised his head and recognized the familiar face of their waiter, now sporting an amused little grin over his lips. He’s rather good looking- now that John’s staring at him in the face. Belatedly realizing his own thoughts, John felt blood pool on his face and thought about how he was probably flushing a brilliant shade of red at being caught red handed.

  

 _‘The waiter was wearing a bloody leather’_ was what John’s drunken mind screamed. The said waiter slowly handed down a couple of pints of beer before flicking back his eyes at John. He flashed a sly grin, eyes in merry twinkle as his eyebrow arched in an unspoken query. “Just flag down if you need more.  _Sir_.” He told John, voice dangerously husky and low that reminded John of Sherlock’s baritone voice. John felt the paradox of feeling his chest tighten at the thought of having lost Sherlock and of feeling the minute but tantalizing twitch of his arousal at the same time. The waiter’s words were definitely imbued with an innuendo. He gulped down before motioning a nod. Beer. He needed a lot more.

 

He looked at Harry the soonest that the waiter walked away and saw his sister smirking at him, head tipped sideways and her eyelids a little droopier now. John frowned at his newly delivered drink before starting up with it again. He coughed a short cough deliberately as he brought down the glass. “So,” he started. “Sherlock’s not in love with me.”

 

”He just loves you.” Harry said, eyeballs rolling dramatically.

  

“Yes.” 

 

“Does your detective loving you make things a little better?” 

 

“Worse. It makes things a whole lot worse.  _Shittier_.” John admitted in defeat as he slumped back down on his stool. “Anyone could love a friend, a brother, an animal, a pet…just about  _anything_. Anyone could love for so many reasons and knowing Sherlock, it wouldn’t possibly be of a reason I’d have preferred. So no, I’d have done a little better with this if he didn’t feel anything for me at all.”

  

“Bastard.” Harry quipped, her lips clamped at the rim of her glass, eyes peering shrewdly at John.

  

“He could be a prick, yes.”

  

“You’re still defending him.”

  

“Am not.”

 

 “And? What else is there, John?” 

 

John willed his heart to stop pacing frantically. There was only one thing left for him to say: The biggest slap on the face; John’s biggest fall. His left hand was trembling as it held the mug of beer so he made use of both of his hands to hold it steadily. It was only when he finished the pint that he looked at Harry straightforwardly and like the soldier that he is confessed, “He doesn’t want me to leave our flat. He said I could stay over my previous room even when he’s gotten back with  _him_.”

  

“ _Son of a bitch_!” Harry had screamed in that shrillest voice of hers, drawing unwanted attention from the other people at the Pub. John winced and imagined his eardrum getting pierced. This was one of the reasons he said Harry was a lousy and awful companion when drunk. Harry still isn’t even halfway to getting fully drunk unlike John. Damn alcoholic. 

 

“Harry…” John was really thinking of subduing his sister but he was already drunk and tired and the blood vessels of his brain were probably dilated enough. Besides, he’s feeling a little bit touched that his sister was adamantly taking his side and was somehow holding herself up from getting fully drunk. God knows that even with her tolerance, Harry can get drunk within half an hour had she wanted to.

  

“ _The fucker, John_!” Harry wailed, her voice hitting all the high notes. John thought she could’ve made it to a decent choir had she desired so. “Tell me you fucking didn’t say yes to the fucker, Johnny!?” He was amused that Harry managed not to use the fucking curse word at him.

 

“You fucking did!” Harry accused when John didn’t answer immediately. 

 

John abruptly laughed out loud genuinely, the first time he did so after he’s left 221B. His barked laughter echoed all throughout the room, his eyes brightening as he finally settled down with just a smile on his lips. Trust his sister to break all expectations. “Relax, Harry.”He grinned. “I didn’t. I’ve been staying at Mike’s flat for a week now.”

  

“Mike? Stamford the fatty?” 

 

“Don’t insult him when he’s the one who’s been providing me roof. And yes, he _IS_ the fat one.” 

 

“Tell me you’re not paying him with sexual favors?”

  

“You think I’m whoring myself out?” 

 

“You could be a whore, Johnny but you’d only be whoring yourself out if you wanted to. No, I’m simply asking if you’re paying for the flat or not because a week’s too long to be camping out in a friend’s.”

  

“Shit, Harry, stop talking like a fucked up maze..”

 

“Mazes don’t talk Johnny.”

 

“It’s supposed to be a metaphor. Speak where I can follow you.”

  

“I was also speaking in metaphors, then. Just answer the question so you could finally get a nice decent fuck in the loo with your waiter.”

 

“No. I can’t afford to pay for Mike’s rent so I’d have to leave there immediately and I was thinking of staying over at your place and - _what?_ Shit Harry, what did you just say!?”

 

“The waiter,  _obviously_. You’re drunk and miserable and I don’t want to put up with you like that in our house. What you need is one decent quick shag so you could purge all the shit out of your system.”

 

“So you’re a doctor now?”

 

“Been a doctor once with Clara. I actually used as stethoscope when I was _doctoring_ her.” Harry grinned lewdly. 

 

John groaned and internally cursed Harry. He did not need to hear that. “I don’t need…”

  

“You do and you’re drunk so it’s perfect. I’ll get us a cab once you got out of the loo, don’t worry.”

 

John was worried. There were a hundred of reasons why what his sister has been suggesting was wrong in so many levels. He was hurting and drunk and miserable and angry and he most probably will regret a number of things in the morning including an earth shattering headache. John felt there was something else he should be asking but whatever it was, it kept escaping from him. “What makes you think—” 

 

Harry kicked at his foot below the table and snapped. “Just go to the fucking loo and see for yourself. Gee, John, just go or I’d be dragging your ass out there myself and tie you up!” 

 

John grunted and blindly got on his feet as he let himself obey his sister’s command. He needed to take a piss anyway so he might as well go and prove his sister wrong. If he felt a painful twinge on his cock, he pretended to ignore it. Swaying and with poorer control of his legs, he made his way to the bloody toilet amidst the myriads of tables and chairs he bumped into every now and then. This was his sister’s fault. This was Sherlock’s fault. This was his own fucking fault.

  

John eventually made it to an empty cubicle and uninterruptedly voided to his delight. He’d closed his eyes for several seconds and realized he’d been so close to drifting off to sleep while leaning on the wall, his cock still out of his pants. Readjusting his trousers, John opened the door of his cubicle and was about to get out when a firm hand pushed him back in steadily yet somehow gently until his back was on the wall.

  

Blinking in surprise and mild disorientation, John gazed up and saw the familiar face of their waiter-in-leather-pants-with-golden-zippers. John felt his heart try to wrestle out of his ribs and he felt the familiar coil of arousal on his abdomen. Without breaking his pace, the waiter traced the outline of John’s cock against his pants, his trousers apparently still open. John’s breath hitched and his knees buckled but the hands on his chest kept him steady. “Shit.” John moaned, apparently caught off guard.

  

The young waiter took it as a sign of approval and inserted his hand in John’s boxer to stroke the aching appendage directly.  John bit his lips as he felt a thumb gently circle on top of his slit, smearing the precum all over the crown. He was almost fully hard now and his cock was engorged enough to feel the constrictions the boxers were providing. He jerked his hips up in an effort to convey the signal that he really, really needed to free his cock now. The young waiter, devil that he is, grinned before attaching his mouth at the lobe of John’s ear, biting before saying, “The name’s Raz, in case you were wondering.”

  

Raz licked at John’s ear before snaking his hand and pinching John’s nipple over the shirt even as his other hand continued its assault on John’s cock, stroking languidly and lightly. He licked a straight line down John’s neck before settling in on John’s clavicle and sucking. “Saw you tonight and thought to myself I gotta definitely have you, drunk or not. Do you know how sexy your  _eyes_  are?” Raz continued, punctuating his every word with nips and licks. “Been sending you signals the first time. Your sister’s quite the adept at reading them. I should’ve known that flagging my bulge in front of your face would do the trick.” 

 

John groaned as Raz pulled at his balls, the light pain jolted John out of his drunkenness and with a hiss he pushed at the younger boy’s shoulders until he had him against the wall. “You’re too young to be teasing someone like me.”

 

Raz smiled and pulled sharply at John’s cock. “Prove it.” He said daringly at John, his hand still clamped at the doctor’s cock.

  

John thought that he didn’t like Raz’s proud expression at the moment. Granted, he was an attractive man, slender and pleasing to the eyes. It was Raz’s smugness that was his failing. It reminded John of Sherlock and he didn’t want to give in to the pain that was already wrecking him from inside out. He didn’t need to think about Sherlock now of all times. John needed to forget but it wouldn’t be with someone like Raz. If Harry was right about purging it all from his system, someone as ordinary and weak as Raz wouldn’t do. The realization, however, doesn’t make John’s hardness go away.

  

John grabbed Raz’s wrist and pulled out the waiter’s hand from his pants. His eyes on the younger man, John opened the buckle of his belt and let his trousers fall to his feet. Raz’s eyes were trailing over John’s erection under his boxers, hungry and decided. “Take of your trousers, Raz.” John said softly but not leaving any place for questions. “You won’t get to fuck me tonight and I’m too tired to do you.” 

  

Raz looked him in the eye before he wordlessly pushed down his leather trousers and revealed his own cock that wasn’t sheathed with brief or boxers. John felt his throat go dry at the sight and he allowed himself a few, quick strokes as he watched Raz get down on his knees in front of him. He’s had an alcohol and such a scene like this was still enough to stimulate him that he’s almost feeling dizzy.

 

John looked down as he felt Raz’s hand grab the waistline of his boxers and pulled the entire thing down in one movement. John let out a breath of relief as he felt the cool air hit the slickness of his aching flesh. Raz grabbed the base of John’s cock with one hand and heeding the doctor’s words, used his free one to stroke his own erection. For a moment, John was just mesmerized at the sight of the younger man stroking himself with one hand. Realizing that he needed this to finish as quickly as possible so he could go home with Harry, he held a handful of Raz’s hair to get his attention. “Let’s get this over with, _Raz._ ”  John let the waiter’s name roll off his tongue like a purr.

 

John closed his eyes as the younger man’s warm, wet mouth enveloped him.

  

***

  

True to her word, Harry was waiting for John as he got out from the loo. He was already feeling exhausted and he’s missing terribly the feel of a proper mattress against his back. He was conscious of the piece of paper that was now inside his pocket. The one where Raz had scribbled his number for John to call if he wanted another go. Stringless. Clean. Detached.

  

The heaviness of his chest was forgotten now, the ache only a dull throb that was sung to sleep but was probably bound to awaken tomorrow. For now though. John was just properly spent and drained enough that he was assured to have a dreamless sleep tonight. Harry, who was already snogging with a girl at the darkened corner of the bar perked up and went to him the soonest that he entered her line of sight. She gave a lopsided grin, her eyes knowing and mischievous. John gave her a relaxed shrug back and bumped shoulders with her as they made their way towards the exit of the Pub. It wasn’t the time yet to review whether or not listening to Harry and having a quick dirty sex at the loo was a good idea or not but John was definitely feeling a little better than he did in the whole week since he has left 221B.

 

He felt better.

   

 

That is until he came out of the Pub and came face to face with Sherlock Holmes.

 


	4. His

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘I don’t have to be guilty about anything.’ John reminded himself as he shut his jaws tight and looked Sherlock in the eyes squarely.

_Then I see you standing there_

_Wanting more from me_

_And all I can do is try_

_Then I see you standing there_

_I'm all I'll ever be_

_But all I can do is try_

_\--Try_

 

 

***~*~***

  

 

‘ _I don’t have to be guilty about anything_.’ John reminded himself as he shut his jaws tight and looked Sherlock in the eyes squarely. He doubts that he looked even remotely remarkable what with his head still throbbing and laced with alcohol. He really had been looking forward to that warm mattress back at Harry’s house and not a chance encounter with Sherlock Holmes when he was still feeling miserable and hurt. He didn’t want to meet the consulting detective like this, with his shirt still rumpled and damp with sweat from the quick dirty encounter in the loo, his member still sensitized from the activity and his face still flushed and warm from the exulting feeling of release. He felt naked and unprepared. Whereas he’d always felt Sherlock’s scrutinizing eyes as if they were peeling his clothes off one by one and surfing through his deepest, dirtiest secrets, John had always thought they were welcome as they can be. Sherlock could be invading but John had always been comfortable with it, brushing the feelings aside, because they were part of Sherlock’s brilliance. This time was _different_ , he felt embarrassed and small and he didn’t want Sherlock to figure anything out—especially the dirty act he’d participated in voluntarily. ‘ _So much for wishes_.’ Sherlock had perhaps already figured out every minute detail of John’s activity with the waiter. The only consolation, he thought grimly, was that Sherlock didn’t know who it was John had spent his time with. Besides,  _why would he care?_

  

Sherlock’s silver eyes were not leaving John’s, the consulting detective pursed his lips in distaste and sniffed in irritation. It was only for a brief second and John wasn’t really sure he’d seen it but Sherlock’s eyes twitched at the corners the way they always did when he was in pain. It was gone just as fast as it had come when Sherlock flicked his eyesupon the whole length of John’s body before flicking sideways at the doctor’s sister. 

 

Harry. John almost forgot that Harry was with him. He chanced a look at his sister and saw her glaring defiantly at Sherlock, her arms crossed over her chest. She was mercifully keeping herself quiet and John just hoped that her first introduction with Sherlock could come to pass without setting off bombs.

 

Sherlock huffed and John slid his attention back at his ex-flat mate. “Don’t delude yourself, John. Of course _I care_.” He said without preamble, as if to answer John’s private thoughts. Bloody Holmes reading people’s minds, John thought. 

 

 “A quick encounter in the loo most definitely. With the waiter called Raz.” The consulting detective continued abruptly, his face now wearing a look of disgust. “You’re drunk but not intoxicated enough. You’re walking properly except for the swaying gait and your legs aren’t even remotely tired. So a blow. Your trousers had been brought down as the folds suggested but you didn’t get on your knees. You’re also fairly coherent so an amateur did it, someone probably young.  _Raz_ has the reputation for being overly eager.” Sherlock spat the name with revulsion.

  

A loud piercing laugh suddenly broke out from Harry. She was clutching at her stomach and was bent by her waist as she shook out with humor. “By God’s John! Is he always this funny? Is it his hobby deducing people’s sexual encounters?”

_‘You haven’t even heard what he says to Sally and Anderson’_  was what John’s mind supplied.

 

John rubbed a palm against his face and groaned, somehow getting hold of himself altogether again. Trust Harry to break the ice for him. “This is not really the place for those deductions, Sherlock.”

 

“And this is not the place for you to be loitering around and flirting about!” Sherlock rumbled. “Of all the people he’d pick up, it had to be  _you._ I told him not to touch things of mine; I’ll have to properly see him tomorrow.” He said more to himself than to John’s benefit.

 

“Wait. Sherlock, you  _knew him_?”

 

“He’s one of my networks, John and he needs to properly learn his place. Now, let’s get you home.” Sherlock grabbed at John’s arm, his gloved hand slipping down to John’s wrist where it clamped securely and pulled.

  

John had taken a step closer before he stomped his foot back and pulled his wrist from Sherlock’s grip. The consulting detective just dug his fingers tighter and deeper, not releasing. John growled. “Sherlock, I’m not coming back with  _you_. And I’m not yours anymore and if Raz clearly knew you and not me then it’s clear I was never yours so  _just_  let go. Maybe it was someone  _else_  you introduced to him. And leave the poor man alone!” God knows the power the Holmes could hold.

  

Sherlock snarled at the mention of the waiter coming out from John. He rounded swiftly at the ex-army doctor, his face close enough for a snog. John felt the detective’s sharp breath on his face. “I told you there was no need to leave, John! You need to get back in 221B instead of whoring out yourself like this to get back at me even if it  _somehow_  clearly works.” Sherlock punctuated his words as he sneakily slipped a gloved hand into John’s pocket and snatched the little piece of paper that contained Raz’s number. The consulting detective crumpled it before tossing it somewhere on his back.

 

“Oh God.” John groaned, his fists shaking with newly found rage.

  

“I still care for you. I told you.” Sherlock continued, a little softer.  _I love you_. It was there in the way Sherlock talked. Sherlock would probably have said it if Harry wasn’t in their presence. John’s still very good at reading and understanding the consulting detective but right now, all the  _‘I love you’_ s that Sherlock would say was just like a knife slicing at John’s heart. It didn’t do any good for him in the long run and probably won’t continue to be so in the future. 

 

“God, Sherlock,” John whispered, his voice dangerously low. “Just leave before I punch you…”

 

“Or me.” Harry spat, walking directly behind John’s back. 

 

“John—“

 

“No, Sherlock. God, is it always about you? You think I’m whoring myself out to get to  _you_?” John hissed, his voice croaking and the sleeping snake on his chest slowly stirring and gripping at his insides. He was not going to cry over this, he told himself as he felt the familiar tightness of ache. He inhaled sharply, the cold air burning his lungs. “It was for me, Sherlock! _I_  simply and plainly needed  _it_! And I’m going to do it or  _be done_  by it over and over as long as I  _need_  it.”

  

“Come home, John...” Sherlock hesitated as he looked over at John who was now shaking in anger and pain.

  

John pulled at his wrist brusquely until the consulting detective released it. He felt a little at loss and confused at suddenly missing the contact from the curly haired detective. God, how he still bloody loves Sherlock.  “You’ve chosen, Sherlock.”

 

“I did.”

 

John felt yet again how words could slap you in the face like a bitch. He winced and looked patiently at the detective. He’s learned enough how he shouldn’t get his hopes up and presume anything.

 

“You’re still my friend, John.” Sherlock simply stated. 

 

It hit John like a wrecking train: the realization of what this was all about. It dawned on him like a searing burn would feel against an open wound. Sherlock, the bastard, couldn’t let go of him or didn’t want to. He had the gall to try to keep both him and the other guy who still hasn’t arrived. John felt dizzy and green. He felt the bile rose up to his throat and he wanted to double over and vomit. Did Sherlock think he could still live in their flat like old buddies and stomach seeing him with the other guy flirting about? It fucking hurt to feel  _belittled_. And definitely belittled was what John had been. Did Sherlock not understand or he just fucking didn’t care? 

 

John really wanted to get a good cry now, one that would leave his throat with hoarseness from weeping, but was saved from it as Harry swept like a blur past him and walloped Sherlock in the face. Sherlock tumbled backwards, surprised, holding at his cheekbones that was now bruising and bleeding. 

 

Harry still wore a trinket from Clara on her knuckle.

 

“ _Shit_!” Harry cried as she waved her hand in an attempt to soothe it. “The man’s got a sharp bone!”

 

John remained deadpanned as he stared not blinking between Harry and Sherlock. He was almost overcome with the need to walk over to Sherlock and check up on his wound instead of going over his sister who’d solidly stood by him. John chastised himself and bit at his cheek. There were some things he just couldn’t help. John stepped a little closer to Sherlock who was staring at him, fished a hanky from his pocket and threw it at the bleeding detective. Sherlock caught it with his hand.

 

“Just go home, Sherlock.” John said quietly. “I’m really not feeling well and I don’t want to talk to you right now.” 

 

“Possibly ever!” Harry quipped.

 

John’s lips twitched in bland humor at his sister. He looked at Sherlock and saw the man looking back at him, still desperate and maybe a little at loss for clue. “ I…” John started, “I kind of get it, Sherlock, for one crazy reason, I do; but I hope you bloody understand just for this once. I’m not going back to 221B.”

 

“John—“

 

“And I’ll think about it; If I could still be your friend.” John said softly, his heart clenching and protesting wholeheartedly even when his voice was steady. That was what Sherlock needed and John, the fucked up that he was, has already been considering it whether or not it makes him more of a masochist. He heard Harry groan in frustration at his words.

 

 

John avoided the detective’s eyes this time and turned to leave. “Say hi to Mrs. Hudson for me.” Then hesitatingly added, “Goodbye Sherlock.”

 

 


	5. The Man Eater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> .
> 
>  
> 
> It was done. The call to the devil had been made. There was no use making excuses behind his actions.
> 
>  
> 
> .

~*~*~

 

 

_He’s man eater, make you work hard_

_Make you spend hard_

_Make you want all of his love_

_He's a man eater_

_Make you buy cars_

_Make you cut cords_

_Make you fall in, fall in love_

_Makes you_

_Wish you never ever met him at all_

_You wish you never ever met him at all_

 

-Man Eater

 

 

 

 

“You’re really so thoroughly whipped, Johnny.” Harry leered as soon as John entered the threshold of their kitchen. Still not equipped to deal with his sister without his daily dose of hot cuppa, he merely bristled and groaned. They’re almost reaching the limit of their patience with each other. They stay together for long enough and nuclear bombs set off. Three days had passed since what he’s coined as  _The Pub Incident_  happened, three days that John never set off the house since his application for Leave from the Clinic had been granted and three days since Harry had been obstinately pestering him to go to the flavored bar of her choice to get a good shagging. Apparently, recovering from a break up and letting go involves getting buggered up to your eyeballs according to his sister. Harry had been relentless at nagging him to drag his pretty little ass ‘outta’ the house and stop being such a baby--- _her words_ , not John’s.

 

The kettle whistled and John gladly went about his own business. Harry was sprawled on a chair by the table, a plate of pancakes and a bottle of beer in front of her. John winced inwardly at the alcohol, knowing how his sister was chugging it down like water three meals a day but well, he  _IS_  living in her house and he supposed that Harry had been more of an older sister to him recently. John had a niggling suspicion that Harry’s persistent assault to drag John about the clubs so he could whore himself out was a way of her retaliation to Sherlock-- some sort of twisted revenge. _John could tell_. Set aside the decking she’s given at the consulting detective’s cheekbones, Harry had been unnervingly subdued and quiet compared to how she normally was.

 

‘ _People change_.’ John mused as he sipped at his cup of tea. He grimaced at how losing Sherlock seemed to bring his sister closer to him as if it was some cruel mockery of the world.

 

“I know of this amazing hot guy who’d want to get a quickie in alleyways with anyone with holes—”

 

_Or not_.

  

“I’m not going, Harry.” John answered shortly.

  

“You need it, John.” She whined shamelessly over a mouthful.

 

“Leave it.” He sighed.

 

“Just think about it, Johnny.” She persisted before she stood up and scooted closer to him. Harry leaned till their shoulders were brushing against each other and continued, “It’s the _Way Ward’s Shack_  tonight. I so promise you’ll experience nothing else like it.” Harry’s breath smelled awful like when the scent of malt mixed with something sweet, but all John could focus at was the way his sister coated her voice with a forbidden, liquid promise. She was full of serious intent and she had suddenly looked like the unrestricted temptress that she was. Whatever Way ward Shack was, it was bound to be dangerous.

 

John felt his pulse quicken. He was of course aware of how his internal system responded to danger as Sherlock had always been apt to remind him between cases. John breathed out a sigh of relief when his sister left and sauntered off into the sofa.  _‘She couldn’t possibly…’_

 

John shook his head as if to wash off the unwanted idea that came about him. He may have been acting up like an abandoned puppy and seemed moping about but he was quite honestly feeling a bit better. Not entirely okay but somehow fine. There was hardly a need for him to get self-destructive. He had the idea of wanting to purge Sherlock out of his system but that escapade with Raz hadn’t really helped in its entirety.

 

Granted, he did feel a little calmer after The Pub Incident when Sherlock had almost admitted how he wanted to keep John…even as merely a friend…of some sort. The idea’s a bitch but John could understand the motivation behind it in a roundabout way as everything about Sherlock is roundabout.

 

He’s gonna be fine. He’ll somehow be. John thought as he placed down his cup on the table with a sharp clank.

 

~*~*~

 

 

He is most definitely  _not_  okay.

 

The fortress of make-believe about how he was on his way to recovery was all blown up like the fragile deck of cards it truly was approximately ten hours after John had his cuppa in the morning. All it took was one seemingly innocent call from the Scotland Yard and all the pent up rage and jealousy and wrath had bubbled up his chest. The bubble, he imagined, may as well have frothed up to his mouth. The intensity of it all made him want to wreck things or murder people.

  

He chose to  _wreck_  and of what he wasn’t entirely sure.

 

He was face-buried in his pillow and napping lazily when his mobile rang. He fumbled blindly for it and answered without looking up at the caller ID.

 

“John?” Lestrade’s voice answered.

 

John perked up and arose properly, not really expecting a call from the DI. Not that he really was expecting a call from anyone else.

 

“Greg?”

 

“Hi. I was wondering how you’ve been, mate.” Lestrade continued. “Haven’t really seen much of you during the cases lately...”

 

“I, well…”

 

“Your Queen’s been refusing to divulge your whereabouts and Sally’s really convinced he got you murdered somewhere.”

 

John let out a hollow laugh at that. Oh he was murdered indeed.

 

“Well, I’m alive as you can see— _or hear_.” He sniped sarcastically, and then as if to chastise himself added, “Were you really just calling to check up on me, Greg?”

 

“Well, that and…” Lestrade sighed loudly at the other end of the line. “John, are you really okay? You haven’t been sick or something? I know Sherlock’s not the type to think it’s important to tell anyone if there’s something to be worried about but  _we do worry_ , you know.”

 

“I’m fine, Greg.” John answered as he rubbed at his eyelids. The DI actually sounded worried, he reminded himself. No use snipping at him. Well, he couldn’t possibly tell Greg he moved out of 221B as it would lead to more questions, the water John still didn’t want to tread upon. Maybe he could just invite Greg over a pint some other time. “So, what’s the other thing, Greg?”

 

“Well, Sherlock…”

 

_Of course_. Sherlock.

 

“I couldn’t get hold of the ponce.” The DI continued when John had remained quiet. “Locked up murder and all and Sherlock’s been ignoring my texts and calls…”

 

 

_/Tuesday. 1400hrs./_

 

 

Gregory Lestrade continued about his heartfelt frustrations about the consulting detective and John Watson no longer heard him. He was now drowning in ice cold water.

 

Of course.  _Of course_. How could he forget?  _Fucking Tuesday_. It was Tuesday today. Sherlock’s still been attending cases after John has left but today apparently just had to be special to warrant enough ignoring a locked up murder—his absolute favorite. John could feel his own blood pound at his ears and his whole body was as dead-weight as an anchor. He glanced about wildly at the clock on the wall. 2030hrs. Sherlock’s probably already spending his precious time with his old flame and getting reacquainted. John imagined Sherlock being touched and Sherlock touching someone else consentingly ( _which was damn worse_ ) and the unbidden jealousy and envy that consumed John was a monster so palpable.

  

“John?  _John!?”_  Lestrade was shouting at the other end of the line as John came about his senses. He’s been heaving quite horribly loud, it seemed, his fingers stinging from having grabbed his mobile rather tightly.

 

“John, are you okay? What happened?” Lestrade was frantically asking.

 

“ _’M fine.”_  John mumbled. “Listen, Greg, I’ll talk to you later.” He cut off the call rather abruptly before he could hear a protest and stopped himself from throwing the phone against the wall. He so bloody hated Tuesdays now and it was all Sherlock’s fault. The world could just fucking end today or some other Tuesdays.

 

He heaved repeatedly and choked out dry sobs.

 

As the beginning strokes of anger start to ebb away, John felt the crippling clutches of self-depreciation and hurt start to seize him. He gasped for air greedily, his jaws clamping painfully as he willed his lungs not to give out. He let out one brutal sob of frustration before slapping his own cheeks _. It’s been days_. It would not do for him to brood around and drown in misery. He’s been over that already after getting shot at in Afghanistan and he refuses to be the loser that he was; because right now, he was seriously thinking that getting shot at would have been preferable than losing Sherlock.

 

_/Afghanistan./_

 

A dark, sinful name blossomed in John’s mind, unbidden. It caught John by extreme surprise that the overwhelming grief was very rapidly held at bay. To be honest, he hadn’t been thinking about it. He’d almost totally forgotten it, -- _the name_ ,  _him_. Not forgotten, then, seeing to it that he apparently remembered  _him._

 

Bracing himself for what apparently would be tantamount to a double edged knife rutting his gut, John fumbled over his phone contacts with steady hands and stopped as the name  ** _‘Colonel’_** appeared on the screen. With an inhale, he decidedly dug a finger at the call button and waited.

  

The silence was deafening as nothing but the consistent, uniform rings echoed at his ear. It took approximately six rings before a voice answered rather crisply and annoyed.

 

“Yes?” the voice so steady and commanding queried. Not even a hello or a ‘who are you’. John could hear the other man breathing rather fast over the phone. “This had better be important whoever you are or I’m coming after your balls and crush them like the useless appendages that they are.” His tone was quiet yet very gravely laced with murder.

 

John barked out a short laugh at that, his initial qualms and nervousness instantly dissipated as he fully remembered how his time spent with the Colonel was. The other man was dangerous and definitely not good, but John definitely enjoyed some of him, if not all.

 

“You sure about that, Moran? John answered smartly, tactfully. “About  _coming_  after  _my_  balls or crushing them? I had rather thought that they were one of your favorites.”

 

“John Watson?” Moran reveled at the other side of the line and John could already picture him grinning toothily from ear to ear.

 

“No other.” John answered promptly.

 

Moran let the silence roll off comfortably between them. John knew how the Colonel could remain as quiet as a ghost for a whole day; this man who always got to the core of the matter. He wouldn’t ask. Moran had always possessed more control and patience over him. Moran was a goddamned sniper after all on top of being the officer that he was. This was dominance personified and John could feel the shiver up his spine. “I need you. Now.” John simply relented.

 

“I’m rather busy, Captain.” 

 

This was a game of dynamic being thrown back at him but John wasn’t in for begging when he had a card he could still use. “You owe me.” He said softly.

 

Moran chuckled, pleased. “That, I do.” He answered. “Though I remember hearing you say you wouldn’t hold it over me.”

 

“I was wrong.” John said quietly. “But I believe I wouldn’t be the one holding someone over after some time.” He continued crassly, hoping the innuendo would carry his message as efficiently. Moran, after all, didn’t appreciate rounding behind the bushes.

 

Moran appeared to have caught the message clearly. “Oh.  _Oh_. Good, then,  _Captain_.” He purred rather lasciviously. “You’re so dead.”

 

John Watson thought so too and he felt the pleasant thrum of adrenaline in his blood.

 

“ _The fuck, Seb!!”_  Someone else’s voice shrieked over the line. “You’re not abandoning me for some shit!”

 

“Shut up, Jim!” Moran roared back, not even bothering to cover the mouthpiece.

 

“ _You’re not leaving me high and dry and fucking tied up on the bed! I’m going to fucking blow up this building!”_

 

John heard a rustle and some dull thuds followed further by a muffled whine before the voice sounded unmistakably gagged; then Moran’s attention was being addressed back to him. “So, where to? You’re in London?” He asked professionally.

 

“London, yes. You sure you can make it?”

 

“As sure as the bullet that hit you.” Moran answered gravely. “You’re my  _priority_ , Watson.”

 

“I give you half an hour, then.” John said. “At the Way ward’s Shack wherever that is.”

 

Moran laughed out gleefully and predatorily at the mention of the place that John began to doubt his choice of location. Harry couldn’t be possibly getting him in trouble just because of a bar. Quenching down the apprehension that had crept at him, John persisted. ‘”Wash yourself, Moran. I don’t want you smelling of other’s shit.”

 

Moran laughed harder and John felt the initial stirring of fear and dread and excitement and felt mildly aroused. “See you, doctor.” Moran said before promptly ending the call.

 

John sighed, took three inhales then bounced off the bed to get showered and changed. It was done. The call to the devil had been made. There was no use making excuses behind his actions. John had known from the start that whether or not the Colonel owed him, Sebastian Moran would never let the chance of having John come to pass, especially when it was the ex-army doctor who’d initiated the contact after some time.

 

A brief memory of having his hands on the Colonel’s bleeding stomach among the chaos of a warzone, as he was frantically keeping Moran’s insides where they should be before John was hit by the bullet of fate on the left shoulder, flashed before his eyes. Then came the remembering a hospital rendezvous where he was tied up on a narrow bed with bandages, the same ones that were wrapped around his shoulder wound at that time as the muscled body of the Colonel loomed above him and fucked him madly in the mouth, the bandage over the Colonel’s abdomen re-opened and soaked with his own crimson blood.

  

John brought himself from his own musings.

 

These days, it seemed, John couldn’t just help but initiate contacts with people he thought he’d finally do without. He supposed they were better than wallowing up in grief and going crazy thinking over what could be happening right at this moment on the other side of London.

 

 

Oh. Colonel Sebastian Moran was danger personified indeed.


	6. His Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John couldn’t pretend this man was Sherlock, there was no one like his consulting detective, but when he closed his eyes, all he could smell and think about was Sherlock and their time together and all the wonderful cases he thought he’d have for the rest of his life.

_~~*~~_

_Lost till you're found_ __  
Swim till you drown  
Know that we all fall down  
Love till you hate  
Strong till you break  
Know that we all fall down  
  
All fall down, we all fall down, all fall down  
We all fall down, all fall down, all fall down

-All Fall Down

 

 

~*~*~ 

 

 

The Way ward’s Shack, as it turned out, was horrendously difficult to find. He’d flagged down a total of five cabs that all turned out hadn’t heard of the place before John was forced to ring his sister up. From then on it took snaking alleys upon streets he hadn’t known existed in London before he reached the place. By then he was quarter past the time he’d agreed upon with the Colonel. John swallowed the trepidation that had formed at his throat.

 

The Shack was surreptitiously secluded among shadows, the entrance of the bar itself hidden at the back of a seemingly abandoned and renovation-due architecture. The bulbs were busted around the piece of carton left hanging before the metal rusted door, the carton itself the only effortless attempt at announcing the place.

 

John banged exactly four times at the door as Harry had suggested over the phone. What seemed to be a peeping hole opened and John stared unblinkingly at it and didn’t say a thing. Before long there was the sound of metal lock grating then the door was being pulled open before John. He slid in without a word and the door closed with a loud bang the soonest that all of his limbs entered the threshold. He looked up at the bulk of a man manning the door who did not bother with so much as a glance at him, before descending what seemed to be a narrow flight of stairs.

 

John wouldn’t have predicted the scene that greeted him with all his faculties. The place was a bloody den—an illegal one, he’d gamble. The room was covered with thick artificial smoke and mixed with the scent of tobacco. The music was blaringly loud enough to bust ear drums, the bass vibrating up to the cemented floor. What was most striking, however, were the  _people_ —lots and lots of them he thought he’d only see from films and imagination. Most were wearing leathers and latex that revealed more than hid and some were entirely nude he noticed as he silently made his way towards the bar, hoping against hope that it was the obvious place to meet up with someone. John thought he saw what seemed like syringes and pouches of powders being blatantly and boldly passed around the throngs of bodies. He squeezed himself between sweating and grinding flesh and looked about apprehensively. He felt decidedly out of place wearing his jumper and old jeans. Once or twice, people had stopped directly in front of him and leered invitingly, some groping at his ass and tugging at his shirt daringly, both men and women. He ignored them on and persisted.

 

_He was going to fucking murder his sister repeatedly_.

 

John gave out a startled cry as a stranger’s hand grabbed and squeezed at his groin—balls and cock all—from behind. The muscled bare arm that had snaked traitorously across his front kept him pinned securely against a wide, sturdy chest. With a grunt, John tried to flail away but the single arm was as unmovable as a rock. The hand at his groin started to stroke, fingers at the area below his balls and the mound of the palm at the base of his cock, sliding and rubbing confidently. John muttered a strangled cry of protest at the stranger’s assault and the other man answered by sliding his left hand onto the doctor’s left nipple and rubbed at it over the thick jumper. John whimpered helplessly and involuntarily submitted and leaned against the heated torso against his back. The experienced strokes had his body respond traitorously. He allowed his eyes to roll behind his lids and repressed a moan by biting his lips as the stranger’s experienced caress remained unyielding and merciless. John didn’t fail to notice how the other people at the place didn’t seem to pay any mind to what was being done to him. In fact, he thought to himself, they were doing something definitely more morbid and lewd and carnal. He craned his neck diagonally upwards in an attempt to dissuade the other man from further violating him when he felt what unmistakably were teeth clamp tight at his earlobes. John hissed a resounding  _‘Shit’_  and heard the other man chuckle, the rumble of silent laughter vibrating from the stranger’s chest to John’s back.

 

“ _Easy.”_  A deep, suave voice whispered against his ear and John’s heart stopped for a brief second before he recognized the voice and exhaled in relief. “You were so tense.’

 

“Couldn’t you just greet me properly?” John asked; his voice aloud in an attempt to get through the blaring music of the Shack.

 

“I AM greeting you  _properly_.” The man punctuated every word with firm massages against John’s cock.

 

 “Moran—” John tried to break out of Moran’s hold but the Colonel did not budge an inch and instead pinched at John’s nipple.

 

“Ssshhh… I told you to relax,  _Captain_.” Moran coaxed as his lips ghosted over the side of John’s pulse point, the rhythm of his strokes never getting interrupted. “You  _did know_  about this place, didn’t you?”

 

John dazedly looked about at the crowd of flesh grinding against each other, the throngs of sweat slicked flesh engaging in physical gratification. The doctor placed his dominant hand over the Colonel’s hand that was sliding up and down his groin and tried to overtake the rhythm. “I honestly didn’t. I just thought it’s like any other bar.”

 

“Oh, that’s just lovely, then.” The Colonel rumbled, his tongue swiping at the side of John’s neck.

 

John could feel his knees getting weaker and he would’ve doubled over if it wasn’t for Moran’s arms pinning them snuggly against each other. He was fully hard now, his own cock straining painfully inside his jeans. “I…” John began, finding it difficult to form words, “I think I already have an idea about this place.”

 

The Colonel hummed as he temporarily lifted his hand from rubbing at John’s groin only to slip it professionally and successfully inside the doctor’s jeans. It happened so quickly while the doctor was busy trying to catch up to what was being done to his nipple that he was relatively surprised. John’s breathing hitched and he moaned rather unashamedly as he felt Moran’s huge, warm hands wrap directly on his cock, the tip of the fingers flicking purposely at his balls. His knees wobbled and the Colonel supported his weight reassuringly. “No, you don’t” Moran murmured as his hand began sliding up and down the length of John’s manhood. The doctor, for the life of him could no longer follow the conversation for the entire world. “You haven’t really any idea,  _John,_  but I promise to show you.” The Colonel continued mercifully.

    

John recognized the fleeting feeling of consternation take over him. The feeling of foreboding had his heart hammering wildly inside his chest and had his limbs frighteningly numb and relaxed. His own breathing had become rapid and quiet yet with short take of inhales. / _Danger_./ It was the same mixed response he had always harbored to danger and Sebastian Moran was without doubt dangerous. His body prepared for it even as his own mind began to feel what the rational part of him should: trepidation and second thoughts. The call to the Colonel was rather rushed and reckless and it was made in a fit of anger and hurt but he supposed that had been the point, John told himself as he swallowed the lump on his throat. He just had to remember the point of all this even when he wasn’t confident about his decision any longer. It was the thought of getting a shag in front of so many people that dampened what could’ve been otherwise a steady resolution for this arrangement. “I don’t think I can…” John frowned helplessly, “Not with so many people you see—”

 

John’s words were cut off as a couple of clever fingers plundered his mouth unannounced, swiping at the hollow of his cheeks brashly before settling on top of his tongue. John had at first gurgled in surprise and attempted to shout a protest but learned quickly to control the muscles of his mouth lax and let the fingers do their job. It was only when the doctor remained silent that the Colonel deigned a reply.

 

“I know.” Moran simply said, his fingers slid slowly along John’s tongue as his other hand stroked at John’s cock. “I don’t know what you want— _not yet_ —but you’ll get to tell me later.” He said matter-of-factly. “But I know how to take care of you  _John_.”

 

John whimpered and nodded. Moran--- _Sebastian_ , for John had to call him Sebastian now if the Colonel was going to use his first name for this night, and had the upper hand at the moment. “Good man.” Moran continued, pleased. “This  _is_  what you called  _me_  for, isn’t it?”

 

John gave another short nod even as the fingers dangerously went up his tongue near his throat. His eyes glazed with tear as he valiantly tried not to gag.

 

“Now _, Captain_ ,” The Colonel purred, “ I think you were late for quite a while,  _about a quarter_ , so I suggest you start sucking at my fingers in return and I promise you I won’t do anything you’ll not like while we’re in public.” Moran said huskily, commandingly.

 

John obediently wrapped his lips at Moran’s middle and inner fingers that were already impaling his mouth and sucked promptly, instead of giving another nod. The Colonel pressed his own erection tighter against John’s ass as reward. He thought he couldn’t be more surprised at the moment when Moran suddenly started to  _sway_ with the music, dragging John’s body along, the rhythm of the Colonel’s stroking hand never faltering. Moran,  _oh god_ , Moran was  _fucking dancing_  with the music as he controllably grinded his cock against John and as he publicly gave the doctor an amazing hand job.

 

John didn’t stop at sucking Moran’s fingers in exchange but he thought he was going to come real soon if they continued like that— _and he hadn’t even seen the Colonel’s face yet_. His breathing must’ve hitched at some point or he must’ve sucked harder and out of rhythm for Moran seemed to have noticed. “You come without permission and I promise to fuck your ass right here in the open.” He said ever so lightly and John didn’t doubt the truth in those words.

 

John groaned from his throat and swirled his own tongue at the Colonel’s fingers in response. He thought he was gonna die from being so painfully hard if they don’t stop now and heavily considered braving Moran’s threats.

 

 

A naked man with erection against his liquid stained abdomen suddenly stood in front of John and stared brazenly at the doctor’s mouth sucking at fingers then down at the doctor’s cock being caressed under the jeans. John felt the dread and fear at the thought of this stranger assaulting him at the moment but didn’t let up with sucking Moran’s fingers.

 

The new comer lifted his own hands and attempted to insert his fingers into John’s mouth when Sebastian had suddenly stopped both of them from swaying and growled at the naked man. “Go away. I’m not sharing this one.”His voice was laced intimately with years of experience at giving commands. John saw the man look at Moran’s direction, gauging and weighing the threat Moran posed, before retracting his offending limb to his side and with one fleeting and wanting eyes at John, walked away, slipping among other people.

 

John felt tremendous relief as they were both left alone with their own devices. He could’ve thanked Moran, he supposed, so instead he lapped lightly and teasingly on the other man’s fingers. He felt Moran’s thumb caress at the side of his chins in return. “Man, you’re in  _jumper_ s and all and people seem to want to jump you more.” The Colonel said against his ears. “I had wondered how you got permission in to this place you know— _Oh!_  Yeah, it must be your eyes then.” Without further notice, Moran nudged the back of John’s knee lightly. He took his hand from John’s pants and swapped fingers with the ones on John’s mouth. John hissed at the loss of contact on his cock but was suddenly engulfed with the taste of his own pre-cum and salt, Moran’s new fingers now already slick and dirty. The Colonel placed his left hand over John’s hip. “Walk.” He said. “We’ll get to somewhere private now before another fucker tries to get to you again. You’re tense all over again.”

 

With Moran’s fingers on the doctor’s mouth and John sucking in return, they somehow made their way in between dancing, grinding and swaying flesh. Once or twice had there been others attempting to invite them but they both ignored them and remained stuck with each other. John didn’t really know where Moran wanted to go, the directions quite forgotten the soonest that he walked them. Before long he was being pushed gently into a non-descript, empty room. He heard the door click shut behind him then Moran was turning him around, a trace of saliva coating the side of his chin as the Colonel- _he yet had to see-_  retracted his fingers from John’s mouth. Moran growled then quickly lapped a tongue once at the saliva on John’s chin and the doctor saw the face of his Colonel for the first time as the latter pulled back, eyes looking deviously at John’s eyes.

 

Moran looked rather fit, John thought. His face almost hadn’t changed from their army days, only cleaner and decorated with a few additional scars around his neck. His muscles were well defined beneath his snuggly fitted shirt and John thought that the Colonel must’ve been working out even after his days in Afghanistan. There was still the ever present controlled calmness and deliberate stillness in the way he carried himself. He’s a predator, a killer, a sniper with a steady aim. Moran still carried all of them and John wondered briefly how the man hadn’t seemed to change. Overall, the Colonel looked well in his own randy way.

 

“Hello, John.”

 

“Seb.” The ex-army doctor simply acknowledged, remembering how Moran liked to be called. He knew his own face was flushed now, the same way he was aware of the rapid thundering beats inside his chest. He bit out a traitorous moan as Moran raked his deep eyes up and down John’s person, pausing briefly at the doctor’s straining erection under the jeans.

 

“What do you want, John?” The Colonel asked softly, eyes flicking back at the doctor’s blue ones. John appreciated how Moran was always direct to the point, clean and swift like the sniper that he was. There was no beating around the bush with what they both had in mind.

 

 

Images of Sherlock flooded John’ mind. /Sherlock playing the violin, Sherlock in his silken dressing gown, Sherlock on the couch while visiting his Mind Palace, Sherlock running the alleyways in pursuit of clues and the culprits, Sherlock smiling, frowning, sleeping, looking at him./ Sherlock Holmes was undeniably and unshakably what John wanted, what he still wants and possibly would want for a very long time. Even now he wanted nothing more than to return to 221B and find the consulting detective on his bed and be able curl up and snuggle right next to him. That was what John wanted, to soak himself up with Sherlock’s scent and warmth; to be wrapped up securely with him. But then John remembered the last time that they’d made love, of Sherlock thanking him with finality, of Sherlock choosing another guy, and he thought of how Sherlock wasn’t his anymore. The rippling pain over his chest dictated the answer that John had to choose.

 

 “Make me forget.” John answered gently and decidedly as he wet his tongue that had stuck dryly at the roof of his mouth. He valiantly hoped that he didn’t sound as desperate as he truly felt. He saw the corners of the Colonel’s calculating eyes twitched in recognition. Moran never did like not having someone else’s attention.

 

He studied John for several more seconds before giving a crisp nod. “I want you to look around the room, John.”

 

John thought this wasn’t really the time to look around the room when he just wanted a good shag and his erection’s as painful as shit but otherwise did what was wanted of him. He had to get the deed done as soon as possible before his resolve crashes down on him, even when he knew full well that the bulk of the Colonel wouldn’t have allowed an escape for him any longer, being this too far gone in their path. John turned his back at Moran and quickly scanned the room. There was a queen sized bed with clean white linens at his left side; beside it was a wooden shelf of sorts with items he couldn’t really make out from his distance. On his right wall was a small sink; near it was a bench with contraptions of some sort. At the wall in front of him were metal rings and cuffs attached. With a sinking suspicion of what this place truly was, he slowly walked towards the shelf and recognized the myriads of sex toys and devices. He recognized only a few-- gag balls, duct tapes, vibrators, anal plugs, ropes, whips and candles.

 

He gave a startled cry as he felt the bigger form of Moran drape over his back, hands wrapped around his chest. John bit at his lip as the Colonel sniffed at his hair languidly. “Now you know what the Shack’s all about I think.”

 

John gave a short nod. “I don’t really think…”

 

“Kiss me.” Moran simply ordered as he let go of John. The doctor turned around obediently. He saw something in the Colonel’s eyes and decided to throw a little bit of caution away. He did want this from Moran, after all. Wrapping his arms around the back of the Colonel’s head, John Watson tipped on his toes and claimed Moran’s mouth, tongue and teeth and all. The other man’s mouth was already open and received all that he could offer. Their tongues were the first to meet, brushing steadily and unashamedly before their lips formed a sinful seal. The first few strokes of their kisses were clumsy at first and slow and bitingly strained. John was all forceful and desperate for contact having needed to strain to his full height to reach Moran’s mouth. The Colonel stood as straight as he could get and refused to lower himself for John’s reach, his own hands never touching John’s. It was only when John felt how the contact wasn’t enough, the kiss not really doing it for him that he pulled back, arms still wrapped around Moran.

 

“Kiss me.”

 

Moran grinned approvingly before he bent down and claimed John’s lips possessively and brutally, stealing the breath away from John down to the zilch. His firm hands were suddenly on the mounds of John’s ass as he grinded their jeans-clad erections. Moran bit off the hiss that came from John’s tongue with all the authority that he has. There wasn’t anything sweet with the Colonel’s kisses, they were all claiming and plundering and robbing. John briefly wondered if they had the right to be called kisses when they were this carnal and raw. The savage, abusing kisses continued as the taller man pushed John against the shelf and dry fucked the doctor, not heeding the groan elicited from him when his back hit the wood with a forceful thud.

 

John received all that he could get. He was all heaving and grasping for breath when Moran pulled back, leaving their erections pressed together. His mouth felt satisfyingly painful and well battered, the muscles of his cheeks all protesting at the carnal exercise. He watched as Moran removed his shirt and revealed erected nipples over a well sculptured chest. John dazedly leaned in and covered a nipple with open mouth and sucked. The Colonel grunted before hooking his left hand on John’s blond hair and pulled the doctor closer. John took his time and felt rather hazily as the other man fumbled over the items in the shelf with his free hand. John had a fleeting thought about how he should be worried enough about what Moran seemed to be looking for but decided that worrying defeated the purpose of their activity. That and he rather enjoyed lapping at Moran’s nipple. He was finally getting drunk with the power and high. This was something John was good at, something he could do for himself.

 

There was a dull thud as the bigger man threw a few items on the bed then he was pulling John’s face from his chest. The doctor latched on defiantly and gave one hard bite before he was yanked forcefully up. Moran growled before going at John’s mouth yet again for a deep kiss. The Colonel really did kiss like a man, all desire and instinct. There was nothing finesse with Moran’s kisses. Just as abruptly, Moran pulled back and stepped back.

 

“Take off your clothes, Captain.”

 

With aching mouth and straining lungs, John quickly removed his jumper and shirt. He shivered from the cold contact of air to his skin and from Moran’s eyes directed devotedly over his body. His jeans followed suit and the soonest that they fell on the floor and John had his shoes and socks removed, Moran’s mouth was trailing wet, sloppy kisses and licks over his star burst gun wound. “This one’s really mine, you know.” The Colonel growled. Remembering how he’d gotten the gunshot wound from the war, John gave a brief nod before placing a palm over the scar on the bigger man’s abdomen.

 

“And this one’s mine?” John asked.

 

“Don’t be silly, John.” Moran chuckled. “That one’s from Afghanistan.”

 

Without further notice, Moran slipped out of his jeans and John wasn’t really surprised that the other man was going commando. He felt a mixed signal of trepidation and thrill as he saw the familiar hugeness and bulkiness of Moran’s cock.  It was probably the biggest that he’d seen in his life time and the flashes of his intimate memories with it made his own cock stir wildly with more hardness. “Don’t look at my junior like that, Captain.” Moran smirked. “You’re the one with the handsome one.”  


John flushed but otherwise remained staring at the Colonel. Moran grinned before he stalked towards John and pulled him towards the bed. The doctor stumbled over and Moran was quickly over him, kissing and grinding their bare cocks together, resulting to dry and painful, stinging friction. All the while, Moran plundered his mouth and somehow maneuvered both of their bodies so they fitted quite snuggly. John closed his eyes as he felt his body get used to the bigger man’s experienced caresses and strokes. God, how he needed this. He opened his eyes in surprise as he felt the cold touch of well lubricated hand on his cock. He looked down as Moran let go of his mouth and watched as the bigger man stroke both their erections together. The Colonel, sneaky and agile that he was, somehow managed to multi task with the lubricant. Eyes on John, Moran slid down the length of John’s body and without any warning of some sort, went directly to John’s puckered entrance and licked, having used his left hand to momentarily lift the doctor’s balls. John moaned loudly both at the sight and at the feel of wet, hot tongue on his sphincter. “God!” He gritted as he opened his legs wider for the Colonel’s access.

 

Moran had his right hand clamp at the base of John’s cock and squeezed. “ _God?_ ” He mocked even as he sucked at John’s entrance before slipping the strong muscles of his tongue inside John’s hole. John squirmed helplessly and fisted his hands on the linen. “ _Seb_.” The doctor moaned. Moran’s hand had remained still on his cock so John attempted to stroke himself but Moran batted his hand away, all the while the sucking and kissing on his entrance consistent and firm.

 

John knew how near he was as he felt his own pre-cum drip and slid down the length of his own cock. “Seb,  _please_.” He did not want to think about how naturally good the Colonel was with torture—not when John already felt like dying already and Moran hasn’t even started with torture properly yet. He felt Moran grin at his anus, his nose buried at the area behind John’s balls. The Colonel then shifted focus and bit lightly at John’s ball before rising up on his elbows and pressing John’s cock at the side of his cheek.

 

“I tell you what, John,” Moran started persuasively. “We’ll finish this properly and quickly,” He promised as he gave a tease of a lick at the base of John’s cock. “But I get to take you home after this. Now, I know how the doctor in you will refuse any toys in  _this_  room but I have a plug somewhere in my flat I haven’t tried yet.” Moran was flicking his tongue at the slit of John’s cock and the doctor painfully thought about how things couldn’t really get any worse. Moran’s fucking tongue was playing him like an instrument. “What say you?”

 

John stared at the white washed ceiling and gave out a guttural moan. “Yes, Sir.” No sooner had he finished his answer when Moran’s mouth was suddenly eating his throbbing erection. Knowing how the Colonel wouldn’t mind it, John thrusted his hips upwards, efficiently fucking Moran’s mouth in and out. The bigger man took it all in stride, sucking and giving enough friction to John’s cock. Moran’s mouth was doing all sorts of mind blowing good things to him that John almost didn’t notice as two lubricated fingers were inserted into his already relaxed anus. John bit at his own wrist as he felt Moran’s fingers arched repeatedly and mercilessly at his prostrate.

 

“ _Come, John_.” Moran said huskily as he deep throated John, fingers fucking the doctor’s hole. The Colonel grazed his teeth around the strained shaft. Then John allowed himself to let go and felt his eyeballs roll as the wash of release burst out from his body violently. He wasn’t finish emptying his release when he fleetingly and dazedly felt Moran’s mouth release his cock, having only swallowed the first spurts, then the bigger man was rapidly and expertly impaling John’s hole with the hugeness of his erected cock. Moran had his manhood inside John up to the hilt by the time that John had properly finished with his release.

 

Properly sated and in possession of his own faculties, John looked up at Moran’s face and groaned at the sight of his own milky come splattered at the bigger man’s face. Moran just grinned smugly at him before looking down at their adjoined bodies. John was feeling rather properly wasted and painful that he was contented to let Moran just fuck him around. The fullness inside him, stretching his muscles open were rather laced with dull ache but was otherwise pleasant. He raised his arms at Moran and taking the cue, the Colonel bent down on John’s face. The doctor lazily lapped at the come on Moran’s chin, tongue swiping slowly until all the drops were cleaned. Moran had stayed still and patient, granting John what he needed.

 

“You’re really good with your tongue, doctor.” Moran grinned.

 

“Says the man who finished me off with his mouth.”

 

“Oh, you aren’t really done in  _yet_ , John, but you  _will be_  once I’ve sorted you out after this.” Moran said as he licked at the side of John’s face in reciprocation. “Then I’ll have you tied on my bed 1 hour later.”

 

John clamped the muscles of his hole tight as an answer. With a hiss, Moran asked, “Tell me how you want it.”

 

“Hard, rough, fast…” John answered. “Fuck me like an animal.” He said honestly, calmly. He thought it sounded foreign and strange coming out of his mouth but felt like the moment posed for it. As Harry had said, he’d already dug his own grave. ‘ _Might as well go deeper’_ , John thought bitterly. He missed Sherlock and hated it that he could no longer think of the detective without associating the image of him doing something together with another guy whose face John still hasn’t seen. John simply had to forget, had to bury all the shit he’d acquired for himself. He needed the harshness and brutality and pain to hold his attention and feelings all locked up.

 

Moran studied him shrewdly before pulling his cock almost out of John’s hole slowly and thrusting in fully, his thighs smacking against John’s bum. “Then I’m going to take it all away from you, John.” He said decidedly. “We’ll go at it like rabbits but only after I rob it all away from you.”

 

 

John didn’t understand Moran’s words until the Colonel fucked him slowly and lovingly then after. It was the sweet mockery of a lover’s caress. Contrary to what John said he wanted, Moran deliberately made love to him as if they were proper lovers, hands touching in reverence and lips kissing gently and passionately. John thought he was drowning and he choked as Moran’s tongue caressed his coaxingly and encouragingly. He wondered if it was possible to die of suffocation simply because your own chest constricted unbearably tight. Moran swallowed all of him tenderly. John thought, as a single line of tears slid down from his eyes treacherously, how Moran was a  _cruel, cruel_  man---not more than Sherlock—but cruel nonetheless. If the bigger man noticed the torment the doctor was silently suffering from, John didn’t know for Moran had religiously remained quiet and dedicated on kissing him and making love to him. John couldn’t pretend this man was Sherlock, there was no one like his consulting detective, but when he closed his eyes, all he could smell and think about was Sherlock and their time together and all the wonderful cases he thought he’d have for the rest of his life.  _All of these_ , all of these wonderful memories, John knew he had to say goodbye to. He had known so from the very beginning. Where he might’ve wistfully thought he could prepare for it, he’d also known he was a fool. Maybe one day he could finally talk to Sherlock again and be a friend since that’s what they originally were—but not today. He must never delude himself of being able to go back to how they’ve been before. No, John simply had to learn to move on and swallow all the bile and bitterness and hurt.

 

John opened his eyes when he heard Moran’s cry as the bigger man climaxed inside him. He wrapped his legs encouragingly around the Colonel and smothered Moran’s moans with a firm, long kiss. Moran took over the kiss as soon as he’d emptied himself in John’s hole. Hot mouth over his dry one. John was savoring the sensation of wet liquid dripping along his perineum and the softening fullness inside him when Moran brushed his lips against the doctor’s eyelids and cheeks. It was only by then that John realized he’d been crying.

 

 


	7. Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John thought about how he was dangerously caught up in this bitter sweet predicament but it was quickly brushed aside the same way the little details are when faced with the sinful delight of this magnitude; of finally kissing one Sherlock Holmes.

_~*~*~_

_When the day has come_   
_That I've lost my way around_  
 _And the seasons stop_  
 _And hide beneath the ground_  
 _When the sky turns grey_  
 _And everything is screaming_  
 _I will reach inside_  
 _Just to find my heart is beating_  
 _Oh you tell me to hold on_  
 _Oh you tell me to hold on_  
 _But innocence is gone_  
 _And what was right is wrong_

_\--Bleeding Out_

 

 

~*~*~

 

 

Back then.

 

 

~*~*~

 

  

John’s blood was singing and thrumming reverberatingly in his veins and his body was soaring with its new found high when it first happened. He had at first wondered if something was seriously wrong with him. One moment he was strapped with a bomb and relieving the trauma Afghanistan had drilled to his brain, the next he was shaking with irrational fear, the nerves all snapping confusing signals and all, and then last came the  _wonder_ : He was keyed up, energized _, invigorated_. He was drunk in his own adrenaline as his body mistakenly and belatedly released the stupid, useless hormones. He imagined they could have come way earlier when he was strapped with the Semtex in the pool, that way he could’ve at least looked braver and more daunting.  He definitely did not need to feel the high and be a little bit manic while riding the cab home with Sherlock Holmes.  It took all of him to stop his knees from jittering. The consulting detective had been mercifully quiet and preoccupied in his own little world as the ride made its way to 221 B. John had painstakingly climbed the flight of stairs deliberately restraining his feet from sprinting the steps like a rabid animal. He had initially thought of ignoring the tea and going straight to his room so he could wank himself off from the excess energy but decided against it. He didn’t want his flat mate to think something was wrong with him or that he was suffering from some PTSD shit. Well, he was, in a way—but in a complete 180 degree turn. So it came that he decided to take the pretense of having that damn tea and sitting on his chair for a couple of minutes before he’d run off to the confines of his room. 

 

He had just closed the door to their flat behind him and had been shrugging off his jacket when he was whipped around firmly by strong hands on his shoulder and was cornered so very closely by Sherlock Holmes. John may have been too distracted for his own good but he leisurely thought that Sherlock deserved his own credit. The consulting detective could be swift and agile when he wanted, striking as deadly and silently as a wraith. Sherlock had already deftly pulled down John’s leather jacket down to his elbows, effectively trapping his arms, by the time he had taken in what happened. The thing with Sherlock is, he always took up the space whenever he cornered John and this was no different only that the taller man seemed to also overlap with his existence. He looked up to see Sherlock’s face inches away from his, the taller man’s steel eyes staring down at him with dilated pupils, searching and resolute.  John’s mouth had gone dry and his tongue was stuck somewhere at his palate. Despite the bundle of muscles beating haphazardly inside his chest, his time spent with the war had his breathing achingly controlled even when his lungs wanted to suck the air out of the room. His arms were steady in their captivity as the silence of the room rolled uncomfortably. He had signed himself off for any possibility of being together with this beautiful, pale man. He thought how it would not do to let his overly sensitized body to interpret the signals embarrassingly wrong; not even when he could feel Sherlock’s warm breath against his lips and taste the irresistible, tantalizing tease that it brought. Instead, he breathed ever so minutely through his nose, the air never enough, and waited. 

 

“You’re aroused.” The lanky detective simply stated.

 

“Am not.” John muttered, a bit defensively, as he felt his own blood pool warmly at his face. He’d have raised his chin indignantly if it did not pose the threat of dangerously coming close to his flat mate’s lips which he belatedly noticed he’d been staring at. With a dismissive and blatantly fake cough, he flicked his eyes sideways and tried to slide past the taller man only to get pushed back against the door by firm hands on his trapped elbows.

  

“Sherlock,” The doctor cautioned, wriggling at his biceps experimentally. “You’re blocking me.” He said, needing to say something to break the silence, to cover the frenzy of his addled nerves.

  

“That would be entirely missing the point, John.”

  

“And pray tell what would that be?” John asked, his voice steady even when all he wanted was to bolt away and prevent the onslaught of embarrassment.

  

“You.” Sherlock said, letting the word roll off his tongue in his deep baritone voice. “You- getting aroused after getting strapped with a bomb on your chest.”

  

John took a sharp inhale of breath before holding it and settling in for a groan. “Fine.” He grumbled, his brows coming down to a frown. “I was— _am_.” He corrected when Sherlock, the ponce that he was, raised an eyebrow at him. “Hormones, Sherlock. Thank you for noticing. I suppose I can just go to my room now so you can, you know, get out of the way.”

  

“ _John_.”

  

It was in the way that Sherlock had spoken his name that had him frozen on his place, captivated and ensnared.  It sounded sinful and John’s already singing blood seemed to boil as that niggling feeling of hope blossomed in his chest. He wasn’t an idiot; it had definitely been enough to tell him that this was the detective laying out a breeching of threshold. He eased back and rested the back of his skull flat against the wooden door and looked evenly at Sherlock. “What do you want, Sherlock?” He asked after an exhale. There were only two possible outcomes in this scenario and while John wasn’t so keen in backing out from potentially having the man he desperately wanted for some time, he had his pride as a man to protect. 

 

That said pride, as it turned out, was only as fragile compared to the consuming pull that his flat mate had over him. John saw what were recognizably hunger and lust in Sherlock’s eyes but it was the briefest flicker of hesitancy in them that drove John to the edge. Sherlock was already crowding him deliciously, his gloved hands on his elbow, his pale eyes on his blue eyes. The taller man obviously wanted him even when John wasn’t sure if the other man had wanted as he painfully and strongly did. It wasn’t the time or place for Sherlock to be thinking of something else and John rather thought how it was ridiculously easy to close the remaining inches between them. His arms still trapped in his jacket, John stood on his toes and leaned to Sherlock, his movement deliberately slow to give the other man ample time to back away from this because John was now dead sure he himself couldn’t. To his pleasant surprise, Sherlock was already supporting his weight and was pulling him against the detective’s silk clad chest. 

 

Their lips met lightly at first, merely brushing and getting accustomed with each other’s feel. This wasn’t how John imagined himself to be kissing Sherlock the first time. He’d always thought that if fate would chance it, he’d be kissing the consulting detective roughly, reflective of the overpowering attraction and feelings that he’d been secretly and guiltily harboring for quite a number of weeks now. John had now found out how utterly different this was. He just wanted to be good and tender and loving. The passion and ever burning desire was still there, but he found how the dull ache of controlling it for such a perfect kiss was befitting. He was already unreservedly in love with Sherlock Holmes. Things were already bound to be painful and more complicated but John wouldn’t exchange the kiss for the world. He could no longer remember how he used to be without being madly enamored to the consulting detective.

  

John thought about how he was dangerously caught up in this bitter sweet predicament but it was quickly brushed aside the same way the little details are when faced with the sinful delight of this magnitude; of finally kissing one Sherlock Holmes. He felt he was the first man to walk the earth and Sherlock was the snake of temptation dangling the ever sinful apple at him, only the said fruit was completely ignored as he lunged decidedly at the sexy reptile. He closed his eyes as he felt the softness of Sherlock’s wet tongue brush at his lower lips. He opened up like a slave to its master. This was as natural as breathing only he felt more suffocated with each breath. It played his body alive. He heard the consulting detective’s pleased groan before he felt him succumb deeper and then they were finally, finally truly kissing with nips and sucks at all the right angles. It was only when John had been possessed with the overwhelming desire to pull Sherlock ridiculously closer that he realized how his arms were still trapped in his jacket. He tried to pull out from the kiss only to find the detective’s mouth follow his lips and reclaim the kiss as if it was never interrupted and then John was lost again. Sherlock was simply a fantastic kisser. John has never known his own mouth to be this sensitive and connected to the rest of his body. The younger Holmes, the detective that he was, had found out in no time how to hit and swipe and bite and probe all in the right parts and in the right time. With a breathless moan, John pulled out from the kiss successfully the second time and rested his mouth at the area of Sherlock’s clavicle, panting and recovering. Sherlock planted open mouthed kisses at the area above his ears when he couldn’t reach John’s mouth.

  

“Sherlock,” The ex-army doctor said in between inhales, “my jacket…, arms—”

  

Sherlock hummed above him. “That would be missing the point, John. Do keep up.”

  

Frowning, John looked up and felt his heart stop in its track at the sight of Sherlock looking down at him with bright pale eyes that were inscrutable but were boring down at him ever so acutely. The detective’s arms were rigid in their vice grip around his waist. “You were strapped with a bomb and you’re aroused.”

 

“And?” John probed with a deeper frown. Sherlock hated repetitions and frankly he’d been saying nothing but the same things. The doctor wondered if he was missing the point but all he could think about was how he wanted to be kissing again. 

 

The consulting detective’s eyes narrowed and John recognized the strain it put Sherlock not to simply roll his eyeballs up. His lips pursed into a thin line before they descended on John the third time, this one more feral and possessive and demanding. The same way he takes things in stride, John simply reciprocated just as much, letting all that he had kept bottled up seep out slowly from their confines. He kissed in an all consuming way, this time without ever letting go as they both panted along the open mouthed kisses they shared. He vaguely felt Sherlock stirring him towards where he assumed was the detective’s bedroom. He let out a gratified moan to convey his approval. It was when the shadow descended upon them and his nostrils were hit with an intimately familiar scent that John knew they were in the threshold of Sherlock’s room. The taller man pulled out of the kiss just as the back of John’s knees hit the mattress and he was being guided hurriedly yet gently down on the bed. Sherlock had deftly followed suit, his legs flanking the doctor’s, his arms still tight around John’s waist. Sherlock draped around him like a tenacious feline, the side of his face buried at John’s chest.  John took it in, Sherlock lying completely on top of him and absolutely still. Somewhere in his chest tightened but he still couldn’t understand it so he closed his eyes and savored the solemnity of Sherlock holding on to him.

  

“You still don’t get it.” Sherlock drawled, his voice low. He rose just enough so he was hovering carefully over John’s face. “You’re so heartless to be doing this to me, Dr. Watson.”

  

John stared at those supple lips that glistened attractively and felt the silent whine lodged in his throat. No, he still couldn’t get it but he didn’t need to admit anything when Sherlock already knows. “You get threatened with death and the first thing you do is get aroused. _Think_ , John. It didn’t really hold an appeal to me.” His detective continued but the words just passed through his ears without weight as he just gets continuously mesmerized at the sight of Sherlock’s mouth. That he was aroused was a given but that he wanted the man so rightfully wrong was more unbearable. He looked up and as their eyes met, they both leaned in for a kiss. The press of lips was long and languid and deep and John just felt like he could bare himself out with Sherlock’s touch.

  

“Are we… Do you want to…” John asked in between the butterfly kisses he stamped along Sherlock’s chin. Just because he needed to ask, to be sure, even when he thought he’d die at the grey thought that Sherlock would say no.

  

“Yes.” Sherlock kissed the answer against his cheek.

  

As if on cue, Sherlock lifted his body off John’s and stood at the end of the bed. John was already shrugging his jacket off, sitting on the mattress, even as the detective started to brusquely dispose of his coat. John swallowed a lump as he watched Sherlock undress, peeling off the layers of expensive silk to reveal the pale, godly skin hidden underneath. The doctor did his best to match up the taller man’s pace in shucking off the troublesome piece of clothing, getting considerably more aroused as he felt the detective’s eyes trained over his body. John hesitated when his hands were finally over his boxers and looked up to see that Sherlock was finally wholly nude, his erection proud and straining against the smooth expanse of his abdomen. Sherlock walked over towards him and John moved back up the mattress until the whole length of his legs were comfortably spread over. He let his back sink against the bed as Sherlock lied on top of him before they silently reclaimed each other’s mouth.

 

There was nothing wholesome in their kiss this time. It was of pure consummation and the lewd satiating of the hunger. They both know what they wanted and what was inevitable. John couldn’t shake off the thought that Sherlock was claiming him as the detective’s tongue brushed at his teeth, palate and tongue. There was a desperate touch in the way Sherlock sucked  _bruisingly_  at his lips. John tangled his fingers at the taller man’s luscious curls and gave just as much as he got. Sherlock was his. Maybe not in a month’s time or a year’s time or not in the life after this one, but Sherlock was his tonight and to hell if John Watson would bail out. He wrapped his legs around Sherlock’s and pulled down so that the other man’s manhood rubbed against his throbbing one. John moaned at the friction created by the precum-soaked thin material of his boxers. Sherlock’s accompanying groan was all he needed as a signal and then he was boldly thrusting up and rolling his hips, seeking the contact. With a grunt the taller man grazed his teeth at John’s chin down the side of his neck.

  

“Don’t get cheeky on me, John.” Sherlock said with a husky, lust filled voice, as his hands roamed, exploring at the expanse of the doctor’s chest. He deviously pushed down sharply and John was exulted at the delicious pain the friction of their rubbing phalluses elicited. 

 

Whereas Sherlock has always been meticulous and careful with his experiments, John was treated in the same way, only with more attention. Sherlock sniffed and licked and rubbed at John’s body so agonizingly slow. All the while, the circling and grinding of their strained cocks were never interrupted but John swore it just wasn’t enough. He whined as the detective lapped from a nipple down to the side of his chest, his nails dragging and raking over John’s side.

  

“Sherlock…” John panted, needing more. He slipped a hand over the other man’s nape and caressed insistently.

  

“Patience,” Sherlock purred as he dragged his nose up to John’s left axilla and sniffed. John groaned and bristled with embarrassment before belatedly thanking the heavens above that he’d taken a bath earlier prior to being whisked off by the consulting criminal and strapped with a bomb. He was completely lost as he felt both of Sherlock’s open mouth kiss at his bullet scar and Sherlock’s hand on his boxers clad cock. The taller man stroked just as unhurriedly, kneading along the length of his erection. John whimpered even as he unashamedly lifted his hips and met Sherlock’s touch, demanding for more attention. He groaned when he felt Sherlock’s smile against his shoulder. Without further notice and in retaliation, John hooked an arm around the taller man’s back and with a battle trained experience, maneuvered their bodies so that their position were reversed. Sherlock was smirking even as he hit the mattress. John who was propped by his elbows leaned down and swallowed the smirk off with a punishing kiss.

  

“Oh, god,  _you’re_  the tease.”

  

Sherlock hummed as he bent his knee up to jab playfully at John’s straining cock.

  

Realizing how he was still in his stupid boxers, John rose to his knees and pulled down to free his pulsing erection rather hurriedly and without poise. A hand yanked down at his arms and he stumbled back on the bed, his damn undergarment stuck somewhere below his knees. He found himself on his side, lying face to face with Sherlock who was smiling triumphantly at him. John held his breath at the precious sight before him, at the beautiful naked man who was smiling unreservedly back, at this amazing, unbelievable genius that was Sherlock Holmes.  Sherlock blinked and then they were back to kissing, and oh how the kissing was perfectly right in its rawness this time too. John thought how he could get lost in it if he wasn’t also dying to be consumed wholly by this man. They kissed and there wasn’t innocent about it as Sherlock slipped a leg in between John’s so that they could rub at their erections quite snuggly sideways. Their tongues danced around each other, lips closed and opened and it was only when the need for air persisted that Sherlock reached and fumbled at the bedside drawer to reveal a bottle of oil. 

 

John raised an eyebrow at the sight, not really sure he wanted to know the reason that Sherlock had it. 

 

“Don’t be obtuse, John. I wank occasionally.” Sherlock said even as he rolled his eyes. 

 

“You wank?” 

 

“Hmm…  _yes_.” Sherlock continued even as he uncapped the small bottle and poured a generous amount over his hand. “Especially when you took up the room upstairs. Especially when you walk around the flat clad only with that tiny excuse of a towel after your shower.” Sherlock stroked at his own erection, coating his pink throbbing cock with oil as he stared at John’s eyes. “Especially when I catch you napping defenselessly on your chair. Really, I now wank very often.” He continued softly.

  

John wasn’t looking at Sherlock. In fact he stopped looking the detective in the eyes the moment Sherlock started to stroke himself. John was very jealous of that hand so with a groan wrapped his own over the detective’s length. Sherlock moaned, gratified before he pulled out his hand from his cock and poured another handful of oil on his hand, shaking as John’s hand massaged him. 

 

“Really, Sherlock,” John groaned, sniffing at the scent, his hand rubbing a circle over the slit of the taller man’s cock and spreading the pre-cum over the glans. “Lavender?”

  

“Nicked it from Mrs. Hudson, of course.” Sherlock stated smugly even as he hissed in pleasure. “Lie down, John.”

  

John paused and looked squarely at Sherlock. He often marveled how at times one of them needn’t put things into words as they both understood what the other wanted. He could’ve asked why it took them too long for this when they were dancing the dance of subtle flirtation around each other for quite a time before now but he already knew the answer to that and this wasn’t really the time to dwell on it. Letting out a breath, he gave a brief nod at Sherlock before lying on his back against the mattress. Sherlock was immediately at his neck, sucking and marking brusquely. John bared his neck and encouragingly bent a leg so that a heel rested flat at the bed, spreading himself open simply because he’d wanted for so long. Sherlock parted from the kiss and looked down at the sight of the doctor, wanting. The detective gave a moan before he once again feasted on John’s mouth. 

 

Despite knowing what was to come, John tensed as he felt Sherlock’s slicked finger probe at the muscles of his entrance. Sherlock must’ve noticed because he did something incredible with his tongue somewhere in John’s mouth and the doctor became a writhing mess at the pleasure, his back arching responsively. Sherlock continued with his assault and had two fingers inside John by the time the doctor was given the opportunity to gasp for air. Then Sherlock was crisscrossing his fingers inside John’s warmth, stretching the muscles open, and alternating with arched thrust and hitting the doctor’s prostrate. Sherlock was relentless with those dexterous, nimble fingers of his even as he kissed john. Sherlock almost never foregoes the kissing and John had that wonderful idea that Sherlock may have wanted him just as much. John felt the dull, stinging pain as Sherlock inserted a third finger pass the second knuckle, all three fingers preparing him open.

  

“John…”

  

“I’m okay.” He panted. “Just getting used to it, is all.”

  

Sherlock carefully pulled out from him and leaned down for an open mouthed kiss. 

 

“I can take it.” John said reassuringly when he saw concern on the detective’s face. He was actually more concerned with Sherlock backing out from this when they were all too far gone down the road at this point. Sherlock looked down at him with scrutinizing eyes and must’ve found what he was looking for in John’s face. With another firm brush of wet lips, Sherlock put a hand possessively over John’s hip. He rose cautiously on his knees and with his free hand grabbed the base of his own cock and lined it up on john’s entrance. John lifted a leg and rested it on the small of the taller man’s back. It was only during his exhale that he felt Sherlock move and slowly pushed in. John felt the gentle throb as the detective’s manhood breached his entrance. He watched as Sherlock slowly yet smoothly sank inside him. It wasn’t unpleasant but it was uncomfortable. He took in a lungful of trained breathes as he allowed his body to get used to the sensation of fullness, of having the whole of Sherlock.

  

Sherlock rubbed a thumb on John’s forehead and brushed away some sweat soaked fringes. 

 

“John.” 

 

John opened his eyes he hadn’t realized had closed on their own and saw Sherlock looking down at him softly. “Am not a doll, Sherlock.” 

 

“Of course you aren’t.”

  

“Hmm… so aren’t we going to get to it?”

  

Sherlock leaned down for a kiss instead of giving an answer. “Tell me if you want to stop.”

  

“I’m alright.” John simply answered. Sherlock silently regarded him, having probably understood what was silently conveyed. The world could burn itself and there was no way John would want this to stop. 

 

With one more press of lips, Sherlock finally braced a hand against the mattress to support himself and reached down to wrap a hand securely at John’s cock. He begun to stroke as he slowly pulled out from John’s hole only to drive back in, re-sheathing his manhood once again with the doctor’s warmth. He grunted with pleasure and John simply whimpered from the dual pleasure. Sherlock took up the pace, thrusting in and out as his right hand stroked John’s cock. Eventually the painful throb of John’s erection along with the searing coiling pain of arousal in his abdomen became too unbearable for him that John placed a hand over Sherlock’s and made a point.

  

“Faster.” John groaned as he peeled off Sherlock’s hand from his cock only to replace it with his own. 

 

Sherlock moaned at the sight of the doctor stroking himself with his own hand while his hole was impaled with Sherlock’s cock. Taking the cue, the detective lifted John’s left leg and placed it over his shoulder, stretching the doctor wider, exposing more of the entrance. Sherlock resumed the thrust and they both moaned viscerally louder to have gone wonderfully deeper this time. Sherlock was inside John up to the hilt and John’s prostate was rutted pretty accurately. John pumped his own cock and Sherlock drilled faster and harder, both of them taking and getting taken. They matched each other’s pace, the rhythm continuously taking up a notch as they both reached closer to their climax. They exchanged wet sloppy kisses in between as the mad desire for release took over. 

 

John felt the familiar coil on his stomach burn the life out of him. He was at his end. He was dangerously close and his hand on his cock just seemed to have a life of its own. Wanting to convey the message to Sherlock, John tightened the muscle of his arse just as the detective was plunging a thrust down inside him. Sherlock’s arms shook and a strained whimper escaped his lips. He stared at John with heavy lidded eyes and john knew that Sherlock understood. The detective gave a couple more thrusts before he leaned down and plundered John’s mouth. John kissed just as hardly back and felt himself let go as the earth shattering release took his senses away. He dazedly felt the taller man stiffen above him then Sherlock was also overcame by his release, his seed filling John warmly inside. The taller man fell limp and lax on top of John even as the doctor clamped his arms tightly around him, letting the sensations brought by climax pass. 

 

Sherlock rose up and kissed him when they both recovered. Without leaving John’s body, he reached down with his hand for one of John’s abandoned clothing and used it to wipe their cum soaked abdomen clean. Sherlock never did clean so John didn’t find it in him to complain about the way the detective heedlessly and neglectfully wiped at the both of them. John thought he might not even complain until he finally got his sleep. The aching of his muscles and bones were pleasant and welcomed and he was satiated enough to not let Sherlock’s heavy weight on him be a bother. In fact, he rather liked it. 

 

“We ought to take a shower and get properly cleaned.” John said when he felt Sherlock settle on top of him, the side of Sherlock’s face once again on his chest. 

 

“I just cleaned us, John.” Sherlock drawled sleepily.

  

“ _Properly_ , Sherlock.” John said just because he thought he should but he was already feeling the heaviness of his eyelids and he didn’t really want to move a muscle anymore.

  

Sherlock hummed non-committaly. There was a stretch of silence and John thought the detective had finally fallen asleep.

  

“Don’t ever do that again.” John heard Sherlock whisper when he was finally on the verge of drifting off to sleep.

 

“Do what?” John mumbled when all he could think about was how the claws of sleep were dragging him dangerously close.

  

“Bomb.” Sherlock simply stated as he hooked an arm around John’s back, the detective’s face never leaving the doctor’s chest, an ear above the area of John’s heart. “I won’t tell you if can’t figure it out for yourself, John.”

  

John hummed drowsily in answer as he dragged his palm in a light contented caress along the detective’s spine. 

 

“I don’t like it. You can’t die.” 

 

If there was someone in the world that could be tantamount to god, that could make the universe bend at his will, John thought it would be Sherlock. “I’m glad we’re okay, too.” The doctor said as stared with sleep addled eyes at the ceiling. 

 

He felt Sherlock’s eye lashes drift close against his skin. “Still missing the point, John.” The detective said hazily as he finally surrendered to slumber. 

 

 

John still didn’t get it but he guessed that maybe a part of him did as he felt his chest tightened at Sherlock’s words. Sherlock would probably have a painfully numb arm when they wake up, with the weight of John’s back on it, but John was all spent up to point it. Besides, the detective probably already knew that.

 

 


	8. Their Afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Treading the silent waters of the past before tumbling back to the rough track of the present.

_Feeling my hands start shaking_   
_Hearing your voice I’m overjoyed_   
_I’m sorry but I have no choice, you’re only getting better_   
_Maybe you have your reasons_   
_Maybe you’re scared, you’ll be let down_   
_Are you crying when there’s no one around?_

_That smile on your face like a summer  
The way that your hand kee_ _ṗ_ _s touching mine_  
 _Let me be the one to make it right_

_And maybe, maybe let me hold you baby_   
_Let me come over I would tell you secrets nobody knows_   
_I cannot overstate it, I will be overjoyed_

-Overjoyed

 

  
~*~*~

 

**Back then.**

 

~*~*

 

He wondered if it was weird of him that he wanted to cry. He wanted to have a good, tearful weep, one that would exhaust the air out of him just with pure unadulterated wails and whimpers. Do other people normally feel this way? How do they take it? How do they remain sane carrying something as big and as cosmic as this? How he was able to maintain his faculties was still a mystery to him. How he was still carrying on was an absolute wonder. It felt so overpowering, so overwhelming as if the whole universe was crammed inside his chest, as if he had a vacuum inside of him. He was a bundle of nerves and feelings and it was fantastically glorious that he’d go crazy deciding whether he wanted to share it to the world or just hoard it all to himself. For once, it was as if the world has taken its time to pause and remember that it ought not neglect him anymore. He was undeniably happy. Things were right. It was summer and winter blended together. He wanted to get on to his feet and bolt outside the flat and dash in an absolute frenzy just so he’d fry himself out to calmness. It was a good plan, reasonable at the least, except that the whole universe was cradled on top of him at the moment. His universe.

 

It felt as if the jagged pieces of the puzzle are slotting to their right places every time that Sherlock would touch him. God, how he loved the man. As if the casual contacts wouldn’t settle it for him, the consulting detective had recently taken it upon himself to splay the whole of his gangly limbs around John. He would drape himself around the doctor after a good shag, in between the cases and experiments, whenever he’d catch John napping alone after his clinic, and even on lazy afternoons such as today. John would get surprised every single time. Even now as he absentmindedly threaded his fingers through the soft curls, his palm and finger pads massaging the scalp, he wondered what it was all about. He stared at the ceiling even as he ponders. On top of him, Sherlock was laying still, an ear pressed against his chest, his breathing deliberately controlled to match that of John’s.

 

“Is this supposed to be some sort of experiment?” John asked, his voice light like a whisper, not wanting to break the calmness yet wanting to distract himself from drowning at the magnitude of mixed, haphazard feelings.

 

“If you want it to be.” Was the simple answer he got.

 

“Are you trying to see if our heart rates would be the same if you can somehow synchronize our breath cycles?”

 

He was answered by a burst of chuckle from the taller man. Sherlock shifted on top of him and John found himself looking straight at the detective’s silver eyes alight with humor. “That’s completely absurd, John.”

 

“I won’t take it from the man who rode the coaster just to see if the ride could pop an inflamed appendix.”

 

“It was a sensible experiment supported by evidences and theories.” Sherlock drawled, his lips curling to a small frown as a brow arched up in thought. “You weren’t exactly opposed to the ride as I’d recall.”

 

“I wasn’t opposed to the _free_ ride.” John grinned. “But I guess I may as well have paid for it considering the extravagant cab fare we had to suffer as its consequence.”

 

Sherlock hummed and tilted his head, nudging John’s hand that had remained entangled with the locks.

 

“Prat.” John mumbled even as he complied with the other man’s subtle hints. He started gliding his hand along the side of Sherlock’s head, petting slowly, loving the rub of his fingers against the knotted strands.

 

“Isn’t that what most people do on their dates? Share the expenses?”

 

“I didn’t know it was supposed to be a date.”

 

“Your loss, then, John.”

 

John’s lips twitched before blossoming into a full smile. “I guess the appendix in a jar and the candy floss should’ve clued me already. How can I ever make it up to you?”

 

“You can start by not going to the pub tomorrow.” Sherlock said with a sniff.

 

“Can’t. It’s my turn to cover the pint.” John answered thoughtfully. “How about I take you to a date instead?”

 

“Would that involve dead bodies and serial killers?”

 

“No.” John frowned even as he saw the twitch of lips from the detective’s face. “What I have in mind’s actually pretty normal.”

 

“Would that plan enclose tea and sex in it, then?”

 

“Maybe not at the same time...” He grinned. “But if you want to.”

 

Sherlock grunted before rising up on his elbows to meet John’s lips. The doctor met him midway, his lips parting on their own expectantly. They kissed unhurriedly, lazily like the humid afternoon and its still air around the room. John ran his fingers along Sherlock’s nape following the rhythm of their lapping tongues and brushing lips.

 

“Finally got your pointy chin off my chest,” John chuckled breathlessly as Sherlock nipped along his jaw. “I swear it dug so hard I thought it could crack my sternum.” His teasing turned into a half moan as Sherlock nipped with his teeth around his carotid before following through with sucking. “That’s why you need to fill up more. You’re all pointy.”

 

A laugh suddenly burst from the detective’s mouth, the flutter of his baritone voice tickling at John’s ear.

 

“Your cheekbones are pretty the way they are, though.” John finished with a smile, his head feeling giddy at the impossible warmth he suddenly felt around his chest. Sherlock had a wonderful laugh.

 

Sherlock was suddenly kissing him again, his tongue immediately seeking out its counterpart for a wet dance.  John briefly allowed his lids to flutter shut as he massaged back, the room silent save for the sloppy sounds of their caress. He opened his eyes when lips descended and clamped around his tongue and suckled. John would have very much liked to moan if his tongue wasn’t held captive literally so he opted to snaking a hand along Sherlock’s back where he can grip and rake his nails at.

 

“You’re awfully saucy today.” Sherlock said against his lips before he licked his way down to nibble at John’s earlobe. “I bet my _pretty_ cheekbones aren’t the only pointy ones you appreciate.”

 

John bit back a whimper as Sherlock rammed his trousers clad erection against John’s groin. John had reflexively clamped his arms around the detective’s back when the latter tried to lift himself off. God, did John want that heavenly friction to remain where it is. He could feel Sherlock grinning against his ear. “But are you sure it’s me who needs the filling up?”

 

John groaned even as he thrust his hips up. “God…” He gave out a breathy exhale, half amused, half aggravated. “Now you’re talking dirty.”

 

Sherlock gave him a fleeting open mouthed kiss near his pulse point before he sat up and straddled the doctor’s hips. He rocked once, and then drove a slow heavy circle around John’s lap where the doctor’s throbbing bulge sat. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, John.” He grinned, his face a mask of portrayed innocence.

 

“Thought you’d have deleted something like that.” John mused. “As if your sex voice wasn’t enough…”

 

Sherlock chuckled on top of him as he lazily started popping open the buttons on the doctor’s shirt. “Are you always this adorable when you’re not grumpy?”

 

“I’m never grumpy.”

 

“You are when you haven’t had enough dose of your cuppa for the day. Which is always considering…”

 

“Considering you use them for experiments and somehow neglect to get your lazy ass to TESCO every day?”

 

The smug grin on John’s lips was quickly bitten back by a whimper evoked by Sherlock’s thumbs that lewdly rubbed against his nipples. Then Sherlock was kissing him again and John thought about how the air in London wasn’t clean enough that his lungs seemed to be always running out of it.

 

“I’ve got a lazy ass, don’t I?”

 

“Yes.” John smiled as he planted a kiss on one of the detective’s cheekbones. “You know you do.”

 

“Perhaps we can mix tea and sex then.”

 

“Am not grumpy now.” John said as started to untie the knot of the detective’s dress robe. The sleeves fell smoothly down his arms. John pulled back and rested his head back against the arm rest as he watched the expanse of Sherlock’s torso heaving minutely on top of him, the blue silky robe pooling somewhere around the slender waist. “Shirts off, Holmes.”

 

Sherlock locked eyes with him briefly before he set about chucking off his dress robes and pulling off his plain shirt. John’s warm calloused hands were already running confidently and lightly against the expanse of pale, unblemished skin, kneading his thumbs along the detective’s sides. The warm flesh under his hands felt right under his caress. Sherlock seized both of the doctor’s wrists before he carefully placed them on his shoulders and he dipped down to plant butterfly kisses somewhere at the area of John’s heart. The slow sensuous caresses like this were one of the most agonizingly sweet moments that John has come to adore. He’d have loved to soak and engage himself with it forever until he was reminded how it couldn’t be possibly and unbearably enough when Sherlock had finally lapped at his nipple, the wetness of his tongue rolling at the peaked nub. Sherlock was being so tortuously slow.

 

John was contemplating what maneuver he’d execute so he could get the detective under him and seize the control of their pace when Sherlock had abruptly gone still and briskly arranged himself and flopped down on top of John, his head fitting snuggly under the doctor’s neck and his torso covering John’s naked ones. John’s eyes widened in confusion and his mouth opened for a question when the door to their flat creaked open and in came Mrs. Hudson with a plate full of biscuits.

 

He heard a tiny squeak from their landlady as she back pedaled a step when her wide eyes met John’s bewildered ones. His mouth flopped open and close like a fish’ as his breath got stuck somewhere on his throat. He swore the silence that followed was brittle in its temporary existence. Then Mrs. Hudson’s eyes were crinkling up with enlightenment and her mouth turned into a full smile as she took in the image of her two boys lying on top of one another half naked. John colored in embarrassment when he finally did get the air inside his lungs and he gave out a weak cough as he fumbled for a levelheaded sounding excuse.

 

“I…” He started. He wanted to rub hand against his face and re-arrange the awkwardness out of them but he couldn’t even do that as the weight of Sherlock pinned his limbs against the sofa. “We…”

 

“Tish tosh, dear.” Mrs. Hudson brushed him off with a smile that somehow made her look years younger. “Don’t mind me.” She said in a sing song, her voice strained as if fighting a way to restrain an explosive excitement, and then she made her way towards the kitchen.

 

John heard what was unmistakably the sound of plates being rearranged on the table. “Sherlock,” He whispered but the taller man remained unmoving on top of him, seemingly oblivious. “You prat!” John muttered when he realized what the detective was doing. “Oh, God, I hate you… I swear—”

 

“Oh, John.” He stopped when he heard the older lady’s gush. “It’s really about time!”

 

“We were just…”

 

“No need to be embarrassed, dear.” Mrs. Hudson winked as she swept her eyes at them, her hands trembling as she fumbled with her dress in an attempt to soothe some nonexistent wrinkles. “You do look adorable together. At least Sherlock’s finally getting a decent sleep.” She winked again.  “Don’t mind me, it’s all for the better that the house roughing comes a bit after midnight instead of the violin at the creek of dawn.”

 

John smothered a groan as he felt his blood rush at his ears. “Ah, yes, sorry about that Mrs. Hudson. We didn’t…” He wrinkled his nose, “I didn’t know, that it could’ve, you know, reached your… awareness. I bet this _prat_ did.” He muttered.

 

“No worries, it all came muffled.” Mrs. Hudson said in a soft laugh as she waved a hand in the air.

 

John bit his lips as he gave a doubtful nod.

 

“You’re good for him, John.” She smiled.

 

“Thanks.” He said. “He’s good for me, too.” He added more softly.

 

Then Mrs. Hudson giggled and John wished he could at least bury his face under Sherlock’s curls.

 

“Well, I’d be going my way then, John, less we wake dear Sherlock up.”

 

“Thanks for the biscuit, Mrs. Hudson!” John voiced out belatedly when their landlady was finally at their door.

 

“No worries dear! Got some pounds to collect from Mrs. Turner for this.” Was the distant reply he got as he heard the muffled steps coming down the stairs.

 

He let out an audible groan when they were finally alone yet again and Sherlock stirred and began to kiss at his collar bone.

 

“You bastard.” John muttered weakly. “That wasn’t creative of you.”

 

Sherlock just hummed as he grinned against John’s skin.

 

“Did I have to suffer that alone?”

 

“Arthritic knees. Hands full of plate.” Sherlock drawled. “No wonder she’d taken the stairs ever so slowly.”

 

“You sure she wasn’t really just stalking and trying her luck?”

 

He received a low rumble of the detective’s amused chuckle. “No, John.”  A teeth grazed at the side of the doctor’s neck.

 

“So you just really didn’t know she was coming until it was too late?” John teased lightly as he gathered the taller man closer to him, his bare arms around Sherlock’s back.

 

Sherlock met his lips for a playful nip. “You truly aren’t feeling grumpy today, are you?” He said, amusement apparent in his voice.

 

“No. Of course not.” John quipped. “Kind of hard to be at the moment.”

 

“Then I must confess, we no longer have any milk left, John.”

 

“You’ll have to make it up to me.”

 

“Pleasure’s mine.”

 

 

~*~*~

 

 

John supposed that the world could remember if it had already overindulged him. Eventually, the overabundance of warmth and frenzy of emotions could get depleted and the following cold would be sharp in its edges. He lay there on their bed, gloriously spent and fantastically shagged to his eye balls. He wondered if there was something wrong when he loved the intimacy before and during their coupling but never the after. It was the downfall after all, when the high has finally frizzled out into nothingness and he was left facing the plunge barely left with anything else. It was always at the end of an ecstasy that the traitorous and unwelcomed thoughts would creep slowly into the consciousness of his mind. It niggled at him, what wasn’t spoken.  Perhaps it wasn’t the moments after the sex, he thought as he stared at the ceiling. He really has been staring at the ceilings quite a lot these days. Perhaps it was because of the call that Sherlock had to take before they surrendered themselves to the night. There were questions he wanted to ask but wasn’t sure if he ought to at the moment when things had been going so breathtakingly wonderful between them. _Was it Lestrade? Was the call from Mycroft? Do we have a case? Who was it?_ John didn’t really probe so it niggled at him. There existed a calmness and peace of such magnitude that John felt as if it was merely an illusion, unnatural, and that even a wisp of breath could shatter it all away. The silence was strained and he thought he could hear a screech with every breath he took. It bothered him.  It bothered him that he should be bothered about it when he was gloriously and contentedly stretched out on their bed and he knew Sherlock would come back and spend the night cuddled with him.

 

He didn’t move from his position when Sherlock eventually did return, the sound of his bare feet tapping the wooden floorboards. He didn’t turn to his side when he felt the mattress dip on his side and Sherlock lay on the bed and slung an arm across his stomach. He didn’t bit off the words that couldn’t help but escape into existence.

 

“Are you still married to your work?”

 

John thought he ought to be proud of himself that his voice didn’t shake at all nor did it sound weak. It was low and polite and calm even when he felt like he had a right to be demanding. He could’ve asked a lot of questions but he wasn’t willing to forsake whatever it is that they both had and Sherlock was a genius in his own right. The detective would read everything that John had asked in his question.

 

“Yes.”

 

John let out a breath in an exhale as he accepted the other man’s simple answer with a dawdling nod. He didn’t rant. He didn’t turn to face Sherlock when the other man drew closer against him and buried his face somewhat awkwardly around the doctor’s armpit. He didn’t flinch away from Sherlock’s hand that gripped his side.  He just took a lungful of cold air and awaited the lull of sleep to take over and bring him to a momentary oblivion.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chap without the angst. Figured I should at least have a good stuff during my 'born' day ^^


	9. The Men in Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> .
> 
>  
> 
> That’s another distinct difference between them. John Watson was the type of man who opens and closes doors.

 

 

~*~*~

 

_Please let me take you_   
_Out of the darkness and into the light_   
_'Cause I have faith in you_   
_That you're gonna make it through another night_   
_Stop thinking about the easy way out_   
_There's no need to go and blow the candle out_   
_Because you're not done_   
_You're far too young_   
_And the best is yet to come_

_\--Lullaby_

 

 

~*~*~

 

 

His brother was committing the most atrocious, world defying mistake one could ever imagine to conceive in this whole life and possibly also in the other lifetimes Sherlock has ever had and will have if the Holmes gene pool believes in reincarnations. Coming from Mycroft Holmes, that was saying a lot. He could say more about the matter but he’d end his statement with saying that his brother was quite simply being spectacularly stupid. Thinking about it, John was the person who’d hit the nature of Sherlock’s character spot on with just hours of knowing the impossible man. For the brilliant genius that he is, the consulting detective could be spectacularly stupid. Sherlock never made things easy for anyone, for the whole world even, but the ex-army doctor had still nailed it. This line of thought made Mycroft come back to the subject of Dr. John Watson. One can never think of either one of them without associating the other. Such was the way of the world.

  

It was his job to take care of Sherlock Holmes. It was as simple as that and he needn’t put such claims and sentimental reasoning as to why he has been doing things like meddling with the consulting detective’s affairs as the latter would distressingly put it. He has always liked to do his biddings as clean and as swift as possible. That his brother was being painfully obtuse at his own misgivings and was pushing away the one creature that he couldn’t live without but hasn’t realized it yet was something that necessitated for Mycroft’s personal intervention. A legwork as the younger Holmes has coined Mycroft’s business.  All these things bring him now at the inevitable spot of taking care of a certain ex-army doctor; because taking care of Sherlock meant taking care of one John Watson. In turn, looking after the doctor meant having his car be driven across John’s path, blocking any route for exit, the driver getting out of the car and opening the door for John, and him trying to look as intimidating as he could even when said attempts never had any bearing on the doctor’s opinion of him.

  

John immediately halted on his tracks the moment the black car had appeared on his line of sight. Mycroft watched with interest as the doctor’s unsuspecting calm face flickered to surprise, to recognition, to annoyance and then to resignation. He had watched the transgression of the doctor’s face and thought about how it always fascinated him in a vague sort of way. The manner John’s face twisted and changed, morphing rapidly and reflectively to a number of emotions, Mycroft wondered if it was one of the things that have drawn his brother to the doctor, if his brother had found it interesting too.

  

“Come in, John.” He said crisply.

  

He saw minutely how John bit off a grunt of protest before the latter folded himself inside the car and promptly closing the door before the chauffeur could do it for him. 

 

For a moment there was only silence as John quietly brewed over the situation, being truthful about how he felt with the way Mycroft had once again cornered him. The elder Holmes, never one to not sieze an opportunity when he sees it, observed the other man closely. The ex-army doctor had just come from his bath, the fringes of his damp blonde hair was curling at the area beneath his ears. They were jutting out chaotically like soft, curvy laces in different shades of gold. Mycroft had the irrational urge to reach out and touch. Whereas he’s always been distanced and placid didn’t mean he can’t privately appreciate the beauty of things. John’s face was a little flushed, his jaws were tight and his fists were clenched so tight that they were starkling white at the knuckles. Mycroft kept the fragile, uncomfortable peace inside the car. He waited patiently until finally, John took a lungful of air in an obvious attempt to summon courage or whatever it is that the other man seemed to think he had to prepare with and for.

  

“What do you want, Mycroft?” The blonde sighed resignedly.

  

“How are you doing, Dr. Watson?”

  

John tangibly bristled and casting a sideway glare at Mycroft, muttered, “Really, Mycroft? Did you really come out of your way for a small talk?”

  

The elder Holmes tilted his head and looked pointedly at the other man with furrowed brows. While he could understand where John’s hostility was coming from, he couldn’t understand why the other man would think that he was aiming for a small talk. John ought to know that there wasn’t a part of him inclined to ever make small talks. He was attempting to take responsibility and take care of John in behalf of his brother. There was no small talk there.

  

“I’ve come for a number of things, John, and I assure you, asking after your person is one of them.”

  

“Why are you doing that?”

  

“I’m doing what, exactly?”

  

“Calling me Dr. Watson one moment than calling me by my name the next. It’s confusing is all. Can’t you somehow decide on what you really bloody well want to call me for propriety’s sake?” 

 

Mycroft felt the corner of his lips twitch in amusement at the absurdity of the conversation. It was at the tip of his tongue to launch a torrent of sarcastic remarks to point out that he can in fact decide to call any person whatever name he deemed depending on how his mood would strike but decided against it. It wouldn’t do to stray away from the purpose of his visit.

  

“Very well, John.” He conceded. “Would you mind answering my question, then?”

  

He watched attentively as the doctor’s eyes hardened, his face resolutely turning defensive.  _Ahh_ , He mused as he leaned back. John evidently knew that Mycroft was here to broach the subject of Sherlock and it was clear where the doctor’s opinion is on the topic.

  

“I’m fine.” John answered snidely. 

 

“Are you?”

  

“You’re repeating yourself, Mycroft. I’m doing perfectly well until you and your sodding car appeared.” 

 

“Unlike my brother, doctor, you’ll find that I don’t actually mind repeating myself or hearing someone repeat himself for the matter as long as I get an answer.”

  

“And I answered you just now.” John retorted. “So could you just break it for me and tell me what you’re really here for? I truly doubt that you’d rather be here discussing my well being than be at your office and doing whatever it is you do for the government” 

 

Mycroft swept his eyes scrutinizing at John, the man who manifestly suffered a heart break from the most impossible man to ever grace the universe but who wasn’t broken at all. Granted, the ex-army doctor may have been committing certain activities with poor judgment but one just had to look closely to see how John Watson was desperately and unsystematically scrambling on his own to get himself together and off from the deep shit Sherlock had brought crashing down on him. At this, Mycroft was willing to grant that yes, John was doing fine given the regrettable, ill-fated circumstance he was in.

   

“About Sherlock,” Mycroft started with the intent of broaching over the next agenda on his list. He honestly didn’t want to go over it but he, as the indubitably, older brother, had his duties to perform. He’d handled a lot of worse dirty deeds in line of his work in the British Office to be accounted for and this was just a dust to the pile. “My brother is stubbornly and irritatingly being ignorant of his own feelings and I believe he’s making—”

   

“Stop.” John commanded his voice heavy and dripping with all the authority he could muster at the moment. “Just stop right there. I can’t believe this.” He uttered, distressed, as he raked a hand through his hair in exasperation. “You don’t get to speak in behalf of Sherlock, Mycroft. You don’t get to put words in his mouth.”

  

John’s face hardened. The flush on his cheeks was a tell tale sign of his anger. An honest man. John Watson has always been an honest man, someone that neither of the Holmes brothers could aspire to be. He was the sort of man one cloaked with lies and manipulation would want to be by his side. This was the man who has kept his brother’s interest, someone Sherlock Holmes attempted to hoard to himself selfishly and possessively unconsciously—but has somehow rather carelessly allowed to get away without realizing what it would truly mean. And for what? For a mere fixation. He could feel the bile rise up on his throat at the thought.

   

“Whatever Sherlock has done, he’d done so by his own choice. This wasn’t something that happened instantaneously so you could stop making excuses on his behalf. It’s unbecoming.”

  

Wrong, Mycroft thought but kept it to himself. He instead tilted his head in response as an acknowledgment that he’s heard the other man. His brother had clearly did not consider a couple or more so of things in his choosing.

   

“I told you, I’m fine.” John reiterated the corner of his eyes wincing which told Mycroft how the doctor needed to say it for his own sake than his interrogator.

  

“You’re fine.” Mycroft repeated non committaly.

  

“I told you I am.”

  

Apparently, as he’s just learned in the current proceeding, there was no roundabout way on taking care of John Watson. The doctor had casually brushed aside Mycroft’s endeavors of taking responsibility—feeble they may be but they were the most straightforward attempts he could be bothered to manage compared to the previous one wherein he’d tried to bribe his way to secure the doctor’s service. That was the sloppiest mistake, albeit not an unpleasant one, he’s ever made concerning John Watson. It was time to hit the heart of the matter, the third and most vital one on his list.

  

“Tell me, John. Do you plan to continue your  _association_  with a certain ex-army Colonel Sebastian Moran?”

  

He watched as John’s mouth dropped open in surprise, clearly not expecting the sudden alteration of topic especially one where the name of the man was mentioned. His face was yet again flushed in a deeper shade of red. One of guilt and embarrassment, Mycroft deduced as his eyes flicked down to the doctor’s throat and watched how the flush has extended down to his chest where the jumper has disappointingly hidden it from plain sight. 

 

“I won’t even ask you how you knew about him.  _Christ_. It’s really none of your business whether or not I continue my so called association with him. Don’t I at least deserve some level of modesty or privacy around here?”

  

“I disagree.” Mycroft stated calmly, in an attempt to be sympathetic. “But it is my business since you’re in my care at the moment.” 

 

The doctor’s mouth opened to a wider O and Mycroft thought it necessary to launch with his statement before John could get an opportunity to broach the mentioned business. The doctor would argue and claim the inappropriateness of the transfer of care and Mycroft would just be forced to enumerate insufferably the long evidences of the way of the world because,  _really_ , ought not the general population, daft they may be, realize the way Holmes, Watson and Others were interconnected? He may as well have just had Anthea print them completely in bullets. 

 

“It’s especially not a private matter when the man you’re extending your  _kinship_  to is someone in Moriarty’s service.”

  

Mycroft savored the moment that John had remained frozen and immobile as they both let the meaning of the words stretch out before finally sinking in and painting what it truly meant. John’s face was an open window to his feelings and thought especially when he was too mind blown at actually bother hiding them. It was visible how John had at first struggled to resist the words away and consider about its impossibility to finally realizing that the information was coming from Mycroft Holmes, the British Government, and could therefore never be entirely false.

  

“You’re  _shitting_  me.” John said weakly, in a final attempt to refuse the truth.

  

“I assure you, I’m not.  Don’t ever let my brother hear that word from you, it isn’t correct grammar wise.”

  

“Moran works for Moriarty.” John tried the words on his mouth. 

 

“We caught him in one of our surveillance cameras in the pool.”

  

“Then why…”

  

“It was best to let Moriarty believe that we know nothing about his right hand man particularly when the person himself was as slippery as snake like the Consulting Criminal. He’s never entirely alone with all the eyes Moriarty’s had on him.”

  

“This is insane.” John muttered disbelievingly to himself as his face grew ashen pale the more the words started to make sense to him with time. Really, Mycroft , mused, he can’t understand how the general gene pool would associate time with understanding. 

 

“I… I gotta go.” John said, his voice with minute tremble.

  

“I would advise you not to confront Colonel Sebastian Moran personally about this.” 

 

John looked at him considerately as he mulled Mycroft’s advice over. The elder Holmes wasn’t really surprised when the doctor shook his head resolutely. “I have to go.” He opened the door to his side and swinging his legs off the car casted a final sideway glance at Mycroft. “I appreciate you telling me about this… Thanks.”

  

Mycroft watched as the doctor fled from the car. There was no doubt in his mind what John planned to do. That was how the Watsons seem to differ from the Holmes, he supposed. The first confronted things heads on, bravely but recklessly whereas the latter opted in sneakier, delicate, underhanded schemes. Holmes just can’t afford to be wholly reckless, at least, Mycroft can’t. Watching the retreating figure of the doctor, Mycroft ran a number of scenarios in his mind of how John and the Colonel’s confrontation would go about. This is why taking care of John Watson was truly difficult. He had to gamble and rely on the remote possibility that the doctor would always find himself unscathed out of ugly situations. Whereas all logic insists on preventing John from going to Moriarty’s man, Mycroft was assured of how John Watson needed to close this chapter by his own hands. That’s another distinct difference between them. John Watson was the type of man who opens and closes doors. Sherlock and Mycroft can wreak havoc and come and go like storms but it takes a man like the doctor to set the next stage.

 

  

Moriarty would know about the British Home Office’s knowledge of Sebastian Moran, it was a casualty the government could take.


	10. His Gun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> .
> 
> This John believed he could participate in. Pleasure of the body wasn’t something that needed a heart after all, broken or not.
> 
> .

_On the other side of a street I knew_

_Stood a boy that looked like you_

_I guess that's déjà vu_

_But I thought this can't be true_

_'Cause you moved to west LA_

_Or New York or Santa Fe_

_Or wherever to get away from me_

_But now here you are again_

_So let's skip the "how you been"_

_\--Drive By_

_~*~*~_

All John could think about during his mad dash towards Moran’s flat was how crazy things had suddenly become. He’d never have imagined his day to unfold the way it just did. He’d earlier woken up and showered with the full intent of meeting up with Sebastian just as casually as he’d done so before. Well, he mused bitterly, he was  _still_ on his way to meet with the Colonel but the conversation he’d just had with Mycroft and hearing the explosive news did change some angles to how his date with the other man would go about. John can’t honestly decide on how he was feeling with the accusation that Moran was working for Moriarty. A part of him wanted to disregard the information until he’d confronted the other man in the flesh yet a part of him had unsurprisingly accepted the possibility of it. They were both ex army adrenaline junkies who wouldn’t have fitted in society on their own. Moran has been doing well as John could tell. What were the odds that both of them had been enthralled and mesmerized by crazy, seductive and electric geniuses?

  

He flung open the door to Moran’s flat without bothering to knock and came face to face with a barrel of a gun. The Colonel himself was standing naked except for a pair of boxers, his hands steady in their aim. 

 

“I thought you’d know better than come barging in unannounced into my flat.”

  

“I didn’t really come unannounced, though.” John said calmly, looking Moran in the eyes and pointedly ignoring the base of a gun at his face. “You knew I was coming and I bet you heard my footsteps in the hallway.” 

 

“Naturally.” Moran agreed with a grin, one eyebrow cocking up. “You weren’t exactly taking your time, running like a man of purpose. If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve thought you were being chased.”

  

“Well, maybe I am. To the first, at least.” 

 

Moran clicked his tongue and languidly swept his eyes from John’s feet to his eyes. John felt his goose bumps raise the way the Colonel’s eyes roamed upon his person hungrily. Moran was calculatingly snapping his eyes at him that John had the inkling feeling that the other man has been experiencedly and skillfully looking for something. John desperately wished he could hide the truth in his eyes because he knew there was no way in hell he could ever hide his bedraggled state. The collar of his jumper was soaked with sweat and his chest was heaving rapidly in its hunger for air from the extraneous, adrenaline boosted dash.

  

He noticed how Moran’s eyes flashed with something akin to recognition and John felt his heart sink in realization of something with a possibility of being dreadful that was to come. 

 

“Close the door, John.” Moran said, his voice deceptively light. 

 

His heart pounding in agitation, John reached out without taking his eyes off Moran and closed the only exit he knew behind him. It was when he heard the automatic lock shutting in place that Moran smiled openly before dropping the gun from its aim.

  

An idea blossomed in John’s mind, something that was gravely disconcerting in its wake of realization. After all, one didn’t get to live with Sherlock Holmes and not learn a thing or two.

  

“You purposely kept the door open. You  _knew_  I was coming.”

  

“Indeed.” Moran agreed. “I knew you were coming in haste. Marvelous. You caught on quite fast. Pretty sharp, considering your mind must’ve been wrapping itself on a single thought.” He said a matter of factly.  “Go on, ask.”

  

“You work for Moriarty.”  John blurted. There was no longer a need to turn the statement into question as the pieces now slotted into their rightful places in his mind. 

 

“I do.” The Colonel admitted, obviously pleased at the bluntness. “I am in fact amazed that you still came here to my humble abode despite hearing it from the  _Ice Man_. Such a distasteful character, that one has.” 

 

“You don’t plan on killing me.” John said steadily, with clarity as he took in Moran’s answers, He was at least convinced of one thing. The gun that the bigger man held was no longer pointed at him, resting pliant against Moran’s side and facing the floor. John’s breathing was steady even when the very primal instinct of his brain was all geared up in the wake of an imminent threat. Sebastian Moran was a danger, enemy or not. He imagined himself as a cornered feline determined to claw its way away from a lethal tiger. “You had so many chances previously when I was especially unsuspecting. Hell, you practically had me bound and gagged on your bed just last night. At least, for now, you’re not onto me.” 

 

Moran gave a brief, hoarse laugh, his voice rich and filled with humor. “Oh, I  _am_  onto you, John, but no, I don’t plan to kill you. For now.” He added in a sing song. He placed the gun on the table beside him as if to prove a point. “And yes, of course, last night was lovely wasn’t it? I especially love the way your body trembled beseechingly. You could go mute and still be able to tell people what you want precisely.” 

 

“Moriarty knows about me.” John pressed on, ignoring the inuuendo.

  

Moran cocked his head as he gave John a condescending look. “Of course Moriarty knows about you. You’ve been on his radar since you shot the cabby. You met him in the pool.” He said nonchalantly as he began stalking his way towards John.

  

John followed the Colonel with his eyes as the man started encircling him. He fought the urge to whip around frantically and keep sight of the other man when Moran came to his blind spot and somewhere on his back.

  

“About  _us_. I meant to say Moriarty knew about our  _arrangement_.” 

 

Moran let out a deep, dry laugh. “So that is what you call this? _Arrangement?_ Aren’t you cute _?_ ” He gave a soft hum before continuing gruffly. “He does, although he admittedly didn’t find out until we left the Shack together. There being CCTVs and all. He’s the one who rung me up that the elder Holmes finally nosed around and squeaked like a girl sharing secrets he ought to have left alone.”

  

“Moriarty already knew Mycroft knew about your involvement.” John murmured, not really wanting the idea it posed that Moriarty somehow had the upper hand regarding Moran in contrast to what Mycroft and the government had initially believed. On his left, Moran finally came into his vision as the man continued in his silent stalk of revolving around John. “But  _why_ —”

  

“It was his way of holding the leash.” Moran chuckled, in answer to John’s unfinished question. “His way of saying I had to end this little kinship of ours. He gets jealous.”

  

“ _Oh God_.”  John groaned. He was having sex with the same guy the world’s craziest and possibly most dangerous Consulting Criminal was also having sex with. He’s so fucked up. Apparently, the grave was only getting deeper. Harry’s gonna have a hard time pushing soil back to the deep hole that’s contain his shit. “How long have you been working for him?” He asked just to continue the conversation. Moran was steady in his lazy stroll of surrounding John.

  

“That’s one thing I cannot really answer, John.” 

 

“Amongst other things.” 

 

“Amongst other things.” Moran agreed.

  

“Were you there at the pool?” John asked, surprising even himself. The idea had just occurred to him, his mind subconsciously drawing conclusions in the face of threat.

  

“I had my sniper aimed at you, yes.” Moran whispered matter of factly. He was somewhere behind John again.

  

“Would you have fired?” John asked, in a hushed tone, the pounding of his heart was somewhere directly at his ears and he could hear the rush of his own blood.

  

“Yes.” 

 

A hand reached out and touched at John’s left shoulder, somewhere around the bullet scarring but John was prepared to spring, and he has been since he’s entered the flat. His blood was once again drunk with the stupid hormones he could practically feel the current as his nerves frantically zapped impulses back and forth to one another. He recoiled at Moran’s touch and whipped around with a knee readily bucking up in the air viciously. It connected to the Colonel’s right thigh with a satisfying thud. He threw in an extra punch the soonest he recovered his balance but the other man had been prepared. Moran ducked and avoided John’s fist, his cheek only getting grazed by it before he’d skillfully surged towards John and looped an arm around the doctor’s comparably smaller waist and pressed their bodies together, effectively restricting John from delivering a well aimed blow. Moran grabbed John’s left arm in the middle of its attack efficiently pinning the doctor immobile and unable to actually deliver a fatal hit but to claw and dig the fingers of right hand onto Moran’s exposed flank. Moran grunted viscerally from pain before he surged forward, pushing John backwards until the back of the doctor hit the table where he’d placed his gun earlier. John writhed and thrashed in his attempt to break the Colonel’s hold but was in vain. A string of colorful swear words was sung and that damn Colonel just grinned down at him. John wasn’t fooled though, not when Moran’s eyes were dark predatorily as the man stared back at him silently. 

 

It took a long time before John had controlled his body from unnecessary movements. The Colonel was steady in his clutch and John already had his experience to know full well how difficult it would be to break Moran’s hold. It was when his breathing was finally coming back to its decent rate that he realized how Moran’s body was practically almost naked, flushed and pressed against him. Not really having any choice in the matter, John stared wearily at the ceiling as seconds of stillness rolled by. 

 

“ _Relax,_  John.” 

 

The doctor just snorted bitterly.

  

“I said that I’d fire my gun at you. You’re not asking the right question.” Moran drawled.

  

“What for?” 

 

“Ask the question, Captain.” Moran said commandingly, his voice neutral but imploring. 

 

John looked up at him, at the face of the man that would’ve dared anyone to disobey him and John thought resentfully how Mycroft should take lessons from Moran if he wanted to be successfully intimidating. It comes naturally on Moran’s face. Whereas Mycroft’s expressive threats were poised and cultivated, it was more of the quiet, sneaky, sort---something you know would strike silently and logically. Moran’s threat was raw and primal, not the sort that delivers intimidation but one that promises bodily destructions.

  

“Would you have killed me?” John relented.

  

“No.” Moran answered squarely. “I’d have shot you still, though, but I wouldn’t have killed you. Especially not when I still undeniably owe you.”

  

John considered it. He would’ve preferred to have been given a reprieve or a time out of sorts so he could mull over the torrent of information he’s been receiving since has left the flat but Moran thought otherwise when the latter pressed his cotton clad erection against John’s jean covered one. The doctor hissed at the contact, his retort at the action disrupted from its fruition as Moran clamped the whole of his non dominant hand against the doctor’s open mouth, John’s tongue met by the balls of Colonel’s palm. Moran had then proceeded to push him down, guiding him against the table until he had to lean on his elbows to carry his weight and support the reclining angle. It hurt his left shoulder a bit but he thought he could suffer the little discomfort. Moran reached out for something with his other hand. It wasn’t until John had his eyes on it that he remembered its existence.

  

The gun. 

 

He had abruptly stilled, his breathing picking up once again even as his heart thundered inside his ribs. Moran removed his hand from John’s mouth and used it to brace himself against the table and lean closely against John, rubbing his face languidly against the doctors. “A last dance between us. Would you like it? You won’t ever see me again after this, you know that.” He coaxed, almost purring like a tamed cat, which John mused, was the sheer opposite. “Boss wouldn’t allow our rendezvous anymore. Danger to his work and all.”

  

John took a lungful of air as the other man unashamedly rubbed their groins together, a reminder of the many mind blowing nights they’ve just recently spent together while John brazenly took respite in another man’s flesh when his heart broke because of another. It was stupid. What more damage could it cause?  The grave’s been set, his limbs anchored to it already so he was going to do something about it which was to be unwise in dealing with this. 

 

“If it came out to it and Moriarty ordered for a kill. Would you do it?” 

 

“My words hold no promises, John.”

  

“ _Would you_?” 

 

“You’d get a non killing shot. That’s me getting even for what I owe you. You’ll have to manage for the second bullet.”

  

It was the brutal honesty that John didn’t expect himself to be done in with. _In for a penny, may as well for a pound._ And he may just get a thorough pounding after some moment. Not trusting his words or perhaps not really trusting his verdict to be the right one, the doctor tilted his head on his right and exposed the expanse of his neck as a sign of acquiescence. He felt the telltale tremble from the Colonel’s body in anticipation as the other man allowed himself to express an unadulterated moan. Without further ado, Moran dove in for his neck and trailed his tongue from the junction of John’s neck and shoulder, to his adam’s apple where the other man nipped and sucked briefly before licking up to the chin and then finally claiming the doctor’s already half opened mouth. They kissed with familiarity, their tongues getting reacquainted with each other unhurriedly even as Moran grazed his lower teeth at John’s chin and lower lips. The man didn’t really give a damn about getting messy, it was all about the physical gratification. This John believed he could participate in. Pleasure of the body wasn’t something that needed a heart after all, broken or not.

  

John broke the kiss when he felt the cold barrel of the gun against his neck. The Colonel pulled back, enough so they could look levelly into each other’s eyes. Without saying a word, Moran dragged the gun slowly from John’s neck and down, the cold metal digging onto his skin, the Colonel’s finger poised at the trigger. The doctor suppressed a shiver when Moran touched the gun against John’s straining erection, the metal meeting friction against the rough surface of the jeans. The gun pressed deliberately and firmly against his crotch, the muzzle pointed and rubbed the length of his cock down to his balls and below until it was vertically parallel to his body. Moran repeated the swiping motion of the gun, his eyes all concentrated on John’s face, never leaving even as he played this dangerous game.

  

“Seb…” 

 

“Look at you being the brave soldier that you are.” Moran said, his voice husky and filled with unsuppressed lust. “You’re intoxicating.” He emphasized the word by digging the muzzle of the gun against John’s cock. “This excites you, doesn’t it? You’re beautifully hard.”

  

“So are you.” John countered unabashedly, his voice a little cutting.

  

Moran gave a dry laugh. “Yeah, well, but you’re still overdressed.” 

 

John rolled his eyes and made to rise from his recline on the table with the full intent of shucking off his clothes but Moran stopped him by placing a free hand against the doctor’s chest. Moran grinned as he lifted the gun off John’s crotch and pointedly flicked his eyes at the latter’s mouth. His jaws clamping shut in realization, John instead stared, startled, at the gun now levelly raised with his chin. He glared briefly at Moran. The Colonel didn’t prod him but instead waited patiently like a saint, if snipers had chances of entering sainthood that is. John would gamble his life that Heaven shall vomit Sebastian fucking Moran and Hell shall refuse his entry just so he could continue wreaking havoc. With grim determination, John obediently opened his mouth, no matter how a little doubtful he may be. The gun was cold and uncomfortably hard and large to be inserted in a person’s mouth, its heavy weight pressed against his wet tongue. John filed this inside his mind as a reminded that firearms weren’t really created to fit the mouth. He clamped his lips against the sleek barrel, his teeth grating against it. He tasted the acrid oil. The blasted gun was apparently well maintained.

  

“Suck.” Moran said softly.

  

John glared at him but otherwise kept his mouth fixed at the gun. Drool started to seep from the side of his lips and dripped slowly down his chin. With a surprisingly considerate look, Moran leaned closer, taking care not to put strain on the gun impaled to John’s mouth, and licked the trail of saliva from the doctor’s chin.

 

“Nothing’s changed. I’ll take care of you like before.” Moran explained gently, then with his voice a little firmer added, “Suck.” 

 

And wasn’t it the one of the few things that John wanted, to be taken care of, along with the desire to forget? Quite frankly, he’s been magnificently preoccupied this week he’d spent with the Colonel together that grief had only visited him in passing, like just some flimsy reminder of a tease instead of the gripping tragedy that it actually and honestly was. Burying control at the deepest part of his mind, John started to suck at the damn metal. He kept his eyes trailed onto the Colonel’s face and saw how the other man’s eyes was blown wide with lust.

  

With his free hand, Moran proceeded to undo the buckle of John’s trousers, opening the garment with trained, deft hand while the one holding the gun remained steady in its position. John actually marveled at that—not at the way Moran had swiftly removed his trousers and pushed down his boxers down to his thighs, his burgeoning cock tasting freedom—but with the way Moran had maintained his arms at an angle that was promised to get pretty tiring without anything to rest its weight on. 

 

“Hold the gun, John. Don’t stop.”

  

He has by now had a grasp and understanding of the Colonel’s quirks. Not letting chances, John straightened up and slowly held the gun not with one hand as Moran did but with two. He clutched at the grip of the gun without putting a bloody finger at the trigger. Moran didn’t seem to care. He proceeded to remove John’s shoes and socks before shucking off the doctor’s trousers and boxers, instructing him to raise what legs before the other. John was oddly warmed by the other man’s conduct, what with the Colonel actually getting down on his knees to perform them. It was as recompense was what John thought, in exchange to his obedient sucking at the barrel of the gun. Moran got back on his feet just when John started to have an idea that Moran will finally swallow his cock whole. He was disappointed when it didn’t happen but Moran needn’t know that. 

 

Moran took the time to drink the image of John, naked from waist down, holding the gun to his mouth and sucking. John felt himself grow a little harder and blamed it on his exposed bobbing cock. Saliva has by now pooled soaking at his jumper, his chin wet and sticky. Moran wordlessly reclaimed the gun with his right hand and pointed it away as he leaned in once again to plunder John’s mouth. John responded slowly, his jaws feeling strained and worn but Moran had his mad phase initiated regardless of the doctor’s response. The kiss this time was assuredly more heated and dirtier as Moran alternated with kissing the doctor’s mouth to swiping his tongue at John’s chin and neck, their spit intermingling. John moaned as he felt the sharp touch of the gun against his cock, this time the length of the barrel pressed along his shaft. Moran swallowed the noises that tried to come out from John’s mouth.

  

“I’m so hard it hurts.” Moran said in between kisses and sucks, the words proclaimed against the side of John’s lips. “I’d explode and it’s all because of you.” 

 

John groaned in response and getting a little bolder uttered, “Why don’t you, then? No shame coming on your pants like a teenager, you know?” 

 

Moran nibbled at his lower lips and grinned. “You’re awfully cheeky today, John.”

_/“You’re awfully saucy today.”/_

  

John paled, feeling like he’s been slapped on the cheek, remembering how Sherlock had said almost the same words, hearing them as if it has only been yesterday. He recovered himself, it had been only for the briefest of second but Moran apparently had caught up on it.

  

“It’s his lost.” Moran murmured against John’s neck.

  

“Y-you knew?” 

 

“Figured about your trouble in paradise when you sought me ought.” Moran answered. “It doesn’t take a genius to know whose shagging who. You weren’t really subtle back at the pool.”

  

“I see.” John frowned. “But we weren’t together _together_ then.” 

 

“Doesn’t matter.” Moran continued, non plussed as he grazed the muzzle of the gun against John’s nipple. “Plus, Moriarty told me about it. Surveillance’s actually pretty handy.”

  

It was another reminder to John that this man he was reacquainting his body with works for the Consulting Criminal. Oh God was he really doing this. Yes,  _he was_. The chilly caress of the gun back on his naked, pulsing manhood was the proof of that. When he looked up at Moran’s eyes, whatever consideration and trace of tenderness that has been there was gone. 

 

“You wouldn’t bail now, would you?”

  

“No.” No lie there.

  

Moran hummed non commitally and instead kissed John’s ballswith the muzzle of the gun, digging the metal a little ungently against the sensitive skin. “Good,” He said, his eyes decidedly latched on the firearm and John’s groin. “I don’t want to have to tie you in our last play. Take off your clothes, John.”

  

John unhurriedly removed his soiled jumper and his buttoned up shirt as Moran lazily prodded his erect genitalia with the gun, rubbing at his cock and encouraging arousal. He shivered when he felt the metal muzzle of the gun smear the precum on his glans.  When John was finally fully naked, Moran eagerly tapped the tip of the gun on John lips. His eyes steady and fixed at Moran’s, John flicked his tongue and tasted his own musky essence. The Colonel gave a growl before finally tossing the gun somewhere at the edge of the table, way from their body and met the ex army doctor’s lips for a wet, sloppy kiss. John looped his arms on top of Moran’s shoulders and grated his cock against the other man’s boxer covered one. Moran responded with an approving moan even as he rubbed their crotches in a delicious circle. Moran grabbed the globes of John’s arse with both hands and easily lifted the doctor on top of the table, their suckling snogging uninterrupted. John promptly hooked his legs around Moran’s waist, needing the brutal friction. The front of Moran’s boxer was already wet with precum and it slid against John’s naked one pleasurably, but fair was fair and he wanted Moran naked just as he was.

  

“Boxer.”  John breathed as he bit at the Colonel’s chin. 

 

“Later.” Moran answered. “Lie down.”

  

Puzzled though he was, John knew better than to refuse. He lied down, his back digging against the flat wood of the table. Moran placed his calloused hands on John’s thighs and motioned for John to move backwards which he did until he was almost at the middle of the platform.  Moran flashed him a triumphant smile before he leaned down and braced himself against the table with an elbow. “Open for me, John.”

  

The doctor folded his legs at the knees and spread them open far apart as he could. He strained to look down at Moran who hovered closely upon his cock, the Colonel’s breath warm against his enthusiastic flesh. One hand cupping the doctor’s balls from their underside to their front, Moran swallowed John whole with one go, the Colonel’s nose burying on his pubic hair even as the tip of John’s cock hit the back of the man’s throat. John’s eyes rolled up in ecstacy. He’d been deep throated before but being gobbled up so savagely by the bigger man right after suffering the cold caress of the gun brought forth pleasure of such magnitude upon his person.  A howl threatened to burst out from his throat. _Sebastian._ _Moran_. Damn man was always forthcoming with his antics for the life of John. Moran dragged his lips firmly up around John’s cock until only the head remained fastened in between his lips where he expertly applied suction, the flat of his tongue spreading the thick come as it mixed with saliva. John writhed and twisted beneath him, not having anything to grab onto, he raked his nails against the table. Moran kept repeating his technique; deep throating only to end up suckling at the head of his manhood. Then just when John was getting used to the rhythm, the Colonel decided to tongue at the slit, digging the tip of his tongue towards the opening, the strong muscle battling the hardened skin of the glans.

  

“ _Sebastian_!” John grunted in exasperation at the sudden attack. His plead remained unanswered save for Moran’s fingers kneading and massaging his balls harder. John bit his lips in one wild effort not to thrust his hips violently into the other man’s mouth. Gotta be fucking decent somehow. He’s got his manners. 

 

Keeping his deep throating assault on John’s manhood relentlessly, Moran slid a thumb down the doctor’s perineum until it reached the entrance. He caressed it tenderly and expertly and slid the thumb smoothly up to the second knuckle the soonest that the sphincter opened enough to meet his approval. He nipped gently at John’s balls before he pulled out his thumb only to wet his other fingers with his own saliva before proceeding to insert a sleek replacement finger into John’s hole. Spit usually wasn’t enough as a lubricant was what John thought but he didn’t really care at the moment, not when he couldn’t feel any pain the way Moran was dedicatedly pleasuring him, given him a sanity-blowing…well,  _blow_. The Colonel opened him up without wasting time and John felt the rhythm of the other man’s head slowing down as more fingers were inserted into his entrance.

  

“I’m good, _Seb_.” John panted. “Get on with it.”

  

Moran pulled out from John’s burgeoning phallus with a pop. He applied a firm press of his lips to John’s glans as a parody of a chaste kiss before straightening his body so he could look John in the eyes.

 

“I’m going to give you a choice, John.” He said sincerely, his eyes bearing a message that John consider whatever he was going to say and answer after putting thought about the subject. 

 

John crunched his brows as encouragement that the other man continue. It was devastatingly difficult to concentrate when all the blood has rushed stubbornly into one appendage. 

 

“You know I won’t hurt you in case you say yes.” Moran elaborated which raised the ex-army doctor’s hackles. And wasn’t that so backwards? The man explains himself but only manages to get more threatening. “I want to try using the gun on you.”

 

John froze, his eyes widening to saucer sizes in their surprise. If he wasn’t sure how Moran meant to use the firearm on him, it was quickly brushed aside when Moran reached out and pressed a warm, wet thumb on his entrance. John looked dubiously at Moran. While John himself wasn’t a stranger to anal plugs, he had never in his life had a fucking gun shoved up his arse. He supposed Moran’s semi automatic hand gun wasn’t on the larger scale, it practically held no candle against the competitive bulk of Moran himself’s _natural_ gun. 

 

“Condom and lube. I have them, of course.” Moran explained softly upon recognizing John’s raw contemplation. John supposed he’d lost the battle the moment he paused and considered actually agreeing to it. “You say stop and I indubitably will.”

  

“ _Why?_ ”

  

“Because it’s hot?” Moran answered evenly as a smile twitched at the corner of his reddened lips and a brow was raised in amusement. “Because I want to see you touch yourself while I plug you with _my_ gun, knowing I’m the only person who would get to do it?”

  

John groaned heartily even as he covered his eyes with his sweat sleeked forearm. He considered himself a normal bloke who’d get off without stranger quirks. He’d considered himself as the sort who enjoys normal and taking things safe. Admittedly though, Moran’s idea held an exotic, startlingly strong appeal. His could feel himself getting unquestionably harder at the thought. He was swimming in sinful pleasure and he was surrendering himself. He felt a rush of thrill at the idea. Swallowing a lump that has somehow lodged on his throat, and not taking his arms from his eyes, he fired off. 

 

“Bullets. Stop. Wrap.” 

 

“Don’t be silly John, the damn gun never had  bullets in it from the start.”

  

John removed his arm from his face the soonest the words escaped the Colonel’s mouth and the other man was quick to throw himself on the table and kissed the surprise off John’s face. He gave a smack. “Yes, I’ll stop when you say so.”  _Smack._  “Got lube and wrap with me.”  _Smack._  “Thank you.” The accompanying kiss with the last word was deep and hard and bruising.

 

Moran scrambled to his feet and dashed somewhere in the house away from John and the lewd table. He stared at the ceiling patiently, his heart fluttering madly in his chest. He heard Moran’s footsteps closing in on him and felt his presence. John didn’t look up even as he heard the tearing of plastic and Moran reached for the gun somewhere on the table. He knew the precise moment that the Colonel had snuggly fitted the condom onto the barrel of the firearm. He heard the sound of liquid being squirted out of an abused bottle. Lubricant, he supposed. His eyes fluttered shut briefly, then Moran was suddenly holding him around his thighs and pulling him gently towards the edge of the table until his legs where dangling off and his ass was at the border. Moran lifted John’s left leg and placed it on his shoulder while he guided John’s right one to loop around his waist. 

 

“Relax.” Moran coaxed, his eyes imploring as they latched onto John’s blue ones. “Touch yourself, John.”

  

John dutifully gave himself a hand job, his left hand stroking his own cock the way he’s always wanted, twisting at the middle and gripping firmer at the base, pulling and stretching the skin around the bulging veins, his eyes still at the Colonel’s. It was when his own rhythm was picking up and he was starting to become comfortable once again that he felt Moran’s cold, lubricant coated finger slid inside his entrance. Moran stoked him with a single finger, dancing with the rhythm of John’s hand and curling to hit his prostrate every time John’s hand would slam at the base of his own cock. Then came the invasion, when the doctor was finally nearing orgasm and feeling the hot tight coil on his lower abdomen burn. Moran didn’t remove his lone finger from inside John’s hole but instead used it to guide the lubricant and condom coated barrel of the gun inside, the finger blunting the sharp edges of the rod. 

 

“Shhh, don’t stop, John.” Moran coaxed as he rubbed his free hand at the doctor’s thighs. Moran inserted the barrel slowly. “Tell me if it hurts.”

  

It was uncomfortable, the cold hardness was sharp in contrast with a real flesh of a cock. With half lidded eyes, John shook his head. Half of the barrel was inside him, not enough to hit the prostrate but enough to make him feel full. Moran pulled and pushed the barrel of the gun inside John’s anus, the rhythm agonizingly slow to actually contribute to pleasure. Too fast would be damaging but too slow was being too careful to actually be enjoyable. John could feel the metal being shallowly and slowly pulled and pushed inside him, his sphincter wrapping tightly at the coldness. He can’t imagine it was easy to maneuver a barrel of a gun inside a person’s ass to hit the prostrate without wreaking disaster on the flesh. Push and Pull. Shallow and Slow. 

 

“I could come like this you know,” Moran suddenly growled, “Just watching you like this.”

  

Looking at Moran’s open face, at his naked chiseled chest covered with beads of sweat, John suddenly thought how the damn thing wasn’t enough. He removed his hand from his own cock and pushed with both his hands on the table to lift his body up.

  

“Enough.” John grumbled. “I want you.”

  

Moran met his eyes and immediately complied. He pulled out the gun from John’s hole and threw it somewhere on the floor. John took the time to clamp his legs around Moran’s waist viciously and reached out and grabbed at the Colonel’s shoulders. Moran met him in a frenzy and had set about to carrying him with hands cupping and grabbing at the doctor’s arse. The Colonel dexterously and expertly plugged a finger inside John’s hole as he lifted the doctor on to him. John let out a moan before he met with the other man’s lips for a brutal kiss.

  

“Gun.” John whined. “Most atrocious idea you’ve ever had.” 

 

Moran let out a laugh. “I suppose my junior kinda got jealous.” John gave out a groan of complaint at the crude nickname for Moran’s dick. “But I swear you were really hot.”

 

“You and your damn gun.” John muttered as he caught Moran’s tongue and sucked on it.

  

Moran carefully placed him down onto the carpeted floor. When John’s bum was snuggly supported by the flat surface, he lunged at Moran’s cock and caught it between his tongue and upper lips then nibbled. Moran groaned and reflexively hooked a hand at the back of John’s neck as support. He soaked the boxer with his own saliva and lapped at the length of the Colonel’s manhood until the damn cotton satisfyingly clung to the wonderful erection. John mouthed and lapped at it for several more seconds until he felt the precum leak from the clothes and touch his lips. He looked up at Moran and grinned.

  

“Now wouldn’t it be better had you removed that damn boxer?” John said with tact before leaning down to bury his nose against the cotton clad erection of Moran and inhaling the musky scent. “I believe we have a bigger barrel to polish.” John purred.

  

Moran gave out a guttural growl before scrambling to his feet and obediently pulled his pants down. “Lie down, John.” He commanded, his voice dripping with unsuppressed lust, his breathing noticeably ragged.

  

John followed, leisurely leaning down even as Moran’s naked body covered him. Moran engaged him for a full kiss before lining up their bodies and slowly breaching John’s hole with his hugeness. John moaned, his voice loud and hoarse now that he was already nearing orgasm from their activities on the table. Moran’s pulsating manhood was blissfully warm and full as it plugged John. The ex-army doctor was stretched out deliciously well. The blasted gun was just the parody of what the Colonel’s cock had to say. Moran himself moaned at the tightness upon his entrance and only paused for a breather when he’d impaled John up to the hilt and the doctor squeezed his muscles in response. Mimicking the Colonel’s earlier action, John raised his hand and pressed his palm against Moran’s open mouth. Apparently understanding what John intended, Moran obligingly licked John’s palm, coating it with his own saliva. Satisfied, John reached down for his own demanding cock and stroked himself, his lust half lidded eyes staring fixedly at Moran’s. With a growl, Moran took the cue and proceeded to thrust into and out of John, pounding into him harder, harsher, and faster repeatedly until they were both reaching their own limits and their rhythms were finally faltering. John’s backside was scraping roughly at the carpet and reckoned Moran could pound him into the room below if they weren’t already reaching the peak. Eternally thankful, John felt the searing burn somewhere around his groin and abdomen then met release like the wonderful, soul filling explosion that it is, his cum squirting on both his and Moran’s straining and heaving abdomens. On top of him, Moran himself had also haggardly taken a couple more thrusts before finally stilling and surrendering to the strong, explosive grip of climax. 

 

Moran collapsed on top of him and they panted loudly against each others’ ears. 

 

“Well, it has been brilliant.” John said with slurred, lazy voice when the room was enveloped with silence as their sharp, ragged breathing fizzled gradually.

  

Moran gave out an unrestrained laugh, his voice filled with humor. “Brilliant wouldn’t cover it, John. Not with the shag we had.” Then he laughed out more the soonest he finished his words. John frowned. Moran was still draped against his body and he couldn’t see the Colonels face. Moran’s body shook on top of him and his laughter brushed against John’s ears and tickled. “That’s one way of _polishing my barrel_ , John. Didn’t know you have it in you.”

  

John flushed and smiled even when the other man couldn’t see him. “I can play dirty, Seb.” 

 

“Where it’s due.”

  

“Where it’s due.” John agreed with a hum as he stroked at Moran’s hair. 

 

A beat of silence then Moran wordlessly stretched his arms so he could lift his torso and look John in the eyes. The Colonel’s own dark orbs were glinting with mirth and something John recognized but couldn’t put into words. His gut simply labeled it as _trouble_. Those were the predator’s eyes when looking for trouble. It was gone just as quickly when the Colonel flicked his eyes at John’s abused mouth. Moran licked his own lips before swooping down and John met him half way, his own mouth already parted and his tongue out to meet the Kiss dutifully.

 

 

~*~*~

 

  

An hour later, after taking the shower in Moran’s flat, the Colonel insisted that John wear a prepared set of buttoned up shirt and a hooded jacket. They were of Moran’s size and Moran’s smell. Moran had simply stated that it was for convenience and John looked good in them even when the clothes were apparently a couple of size larger than him. The clothes could be spared, he had said. Moran even volunteered to send the soiled jumper and clothes to the laundry and send it per mail back to John.  John had simply shrugged and only thought of it as an expression of sentiment, even when such expressions rarely come from the Colonel. John would realize how very wrong he was and how much deeper his grave has been apparently being ripped open.

  

Carrying a duffle bag Moran had claimed was containing clothes for laundry, the Colonel accompanied John out of the flat, and out to the busy street of London—which was apparently swarmed with the lot from the Met. The building across the street had yellow tapes plastered all over it and a large group of uniformed men from Scotland Yard were scattered about, interviewing, strolling and snapping pictures methodically. People were mingling on and John strained and craned his neck to see what the commotion was all about because the tall bulk of Moran was blocking his view. It’s been a long time since he’d seen such a scene. John looked up to give Moran an irritated look when he realized that the other man was deliberately and teasingly preventing him from having a good look. Moran simply grinned and suddenly leaned down, grabbed at his arms and smiled against John’s ear, his lips touching the doctor’s ears. John shivered as the other man’s presence abruptly crowded his personal space in public.

  

“This is my gift to you. I had to ask the boss a favor and painstakingly arrange to have _them_ exactly where I want them. Chin up, love.” Moran whispered before he pulled back and plundered John’s mouth for a kiss that was definitely crossing the lines of indecency out in the public. It turned definitely filthy when Moran practically shoved his tongue down John’s throat. John had automatically responded—his nerves and muscles acting basely in memory of the way they had been doing lately.  He returned the kiss then took the action yet again as some sort of good bye from the Colonel, bizarrely laced with sentiment. It was only when Moran had pulled from the kiss, hopped to John’s side and snapped his eyes to somewhere at the now uninterrupted view of the commotion across the street that John realized with dread what it all fucking meant. Looking away from Moran’s face, he turned his eyes at the busy building across and laid eyes at the whole of Scotland Yard, Lestrade, a tall man he didn’t recognize and didn’t really want to know when his instinct all but screamed at him, _and Sherlock_ were huddled and situated together—all looking at him stunned, Sherlock with horror on his face. John frantically whipped towards Moran only to find that the Colonel had already sneakily departed and was walking briskly among the busy streets, his blonde hair jutting visibly before completely blending into the crowd and John couldn’t see him anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am once again sending my salute to dear Nofavrell for holding onto my leash and preventing me from getting carried away with Sebastian and John's Gun Kink scenario. Domo!


	11. The Other Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> .
> 
> John had been together with a man. That in itself was a shocking revelation but with it came the dozen more possibilities that could explain whatever shit seemed to have been going on between the Consulting Detective and the doctor. 
> 
> .

_I'd take another chance,_  
 _Take a fall, take a shot for you._  
 _I need you like a heart needs a beat,_  
 _But it's nothin' new._  
 _I loved you with a fire red,_  
 _Now it's turnin' blue..._  
 _And you say..._  
 _Sorry, you're not the angel_  
 _Heaven let me think was you..._  
 _But I'm afraid..._

_\--Apologize_

 

 

Gregory Lestrade reminded himself for about the tenth time within the hour how he should consider being grateful enough for the presence of Sherlock Holmes as he watched the self proclaimed Consulting Detective rant insults over insults laced with all the kinds of verbal abuses possible at Anderson. Granted, his Scotland Yard forensic colleague deserved half of them but _come on_ ; the Queen Holmes had seemed itching for a confrontation since he’d arrived earlier in the morning. There was a fitting word he’d heard Anderson use once to describe Sally behind the latter’s back: bitchy. Sherlock Holmes was _bitchy_. Greg shuddered inwardly at his own thought. In fact, the Consulting Detective had seemed impossibly _more_ out of sorts lately—the git, _by default_ , has always been out of sorts—for almost a week now. It had started with the man missing a Locked Up murder case into becoming the spawn of the devil inciting people to commit murder from sheer frustration at him Holmes himself encouraged naturally. Thankfully, Sherlock didn’t have a repeat episode of being unreachable for a case. For all the Yard’s amounting complaints and snipping about, they’d suffered the toll of not having the git’s assistance that day. Sherlock had come swooping the morning after Greg had called John and solved the blasted Locked-Up murder case within the hour following some browsing through the pictures they’d taken at the crime scene. It’s a shame, really, but they had to admit to themselves how they badly needed Sherlock Holmes for the salvation of Scotland Yard in light of getting buried with piled up unsolved crime files. Greg Lestrade cleared his throat and while trying to be laid back about it, gallantly interrupted when the timbre of Sherlock’s voice seemed to be dying down from his tirade’s climax. Nobody, after all, wanted to hear about Anderson’s masochistic streak during sex.

 

“So, how’s John nowadays?” Greg asked casually, articulating what was at the forefront of his mind. The doctor didn’t come with Sherlock today as well and the extra space around the Consulting Detective was palpable and flagrant.

 

Sherlock had abruptly halted amidst his verbal assault and flicked his eyes murderously at the DI. Greg most minutely flinched, thinking he’d heard a snap the way those pale eyes swept at him, but he still gleefully patted himself at the back—all in his mind. The younger Holmes was nearly unbearable enough to risk getting jailed for murder, and he’s exponentially more of an arse without John to buffer all his abrasiveness. Greg thought that Anderson has had enough and probably needed a breather— _God, they all needed a breather_ ; besides, he was Anderson’s superior, after all, and by status dictates he ought to take responsible for the subordinate. He could see Sally at his periphery, her eyes burning red with anger at the taller man, her trigger finger suspiciously twitching with every quirk of her eyebrow. They’ve all had enough murders for now.

 

Sherlock huffed and stared hardly at him more than he was accustomed to. “He’s fine, Lestrade, not that you ought to know.” He drawled neutrally as he sniffed once more at the corpse at his feet.

 

Greg felt half irritated and half startled at that; irritated because, well, he did care. He’s John’s friend in case Sherlock didn’t notice. He was startled because the mention of John’s name seemed to put the taller man more ill at ease instead of dampening the sharpness and brashness of Sherlock. Now that he’s looking Sherlock in the eye, though, he saw the different blend of the sneer and displeasure coating the edges of the consulting detective’s expression. Greg wasn’t a DI for nothing no matter the very poor evaluation Sherlock may have had made about him.

 

“Of course I ought to know, Sherlock,” he said very slowly and patiently, bidding the time so he could calm his nerves and be less argumentative. “I’m his friend. We do go out for a pint once in a while in between crimes in case you failed to notice.”

 

“Don’t be absurd, Lestrade.” Sherlock enunciated sarcastically, his steely eyes still boring at the DI. “I notice everything and I assure you, the pint is the farthest you can go with him.”

 

Greg gave out a strangled cough at that, his brows frowning for a look of feigned confusion to mask the flush of mortification that crept from his neck to his face. Trust the damn prat not to let anything escape his notice. ‘Nothing to be guilty of.’ Mild crushes aren’t things to be embarrassed about, he told himself, so Sherlock’s banter was unnecessarily off.

 

“Well,” he cleared his throat feebly, “We didn’t get to see him for days now.” He said trying to be casual about it in an attempt to steer the conversation. “Look at the cases he’s let pass. Got hold of him days ago and now he no long—”

 

“— _When_?” Sherlock demanded hurriedly, cutting off Greg. His voice was thick and crisp, as he whirled so his whole body was directed at Greg. He took a couple of steps in Greg’s direction, his breathing quiet and controlled as if he was holding it. There was no doubt in the DI’s mind that he’s got the full attention of the younger Holmes.

 

“Wha--? _When_ what?”

 

“When did you talk to him, Lestrade?” Sherlock asked, his voice coated with poorly controlled impatience.  

 

“Four days, five days ago?” Greg groped, folding his arms so he could place his palms on his waist in exasperation. The consulting detective looked more irate for the briefest of second before he continued to stalk over Greg. “Can’t really remember the day…”

 

“ _When_ , Lestrade?” Sherlock deadpanned. His full weight was looming over Greg now, sharp eyes burning as if they wanted blood. The DI never considered himself small, but he supposed it was different when faced with a seemingly manic Holmes. Sherlock had his gloved hands on his back but Greg thought he could feel them on his neck, wrangling him in an anxious attempt to get an answer.

 

“It was during the last Locked Up murder.” He revealed, irritated at Sherlock’s impromptu interrogation. “We couldn’t get hold of you, remember?”

 

“And you cleverly thought you’d give John a call and ask him about me!” Sherlock concluded with a snarl, his voice dripping with heavy distaste.  He glared at Greg before finally turning and leaving the DI’s personal space.  Sherlock stopped a few paces away from him now, back right next to the dead body on the floor. “Idiot. Moron.” He muttered under his breath, more in a contemplative way than for the decency of keeping Greg from hearing it.

 

Gregory felt exasperated and indignant at the taller man’s misplaced outburst. He wiped a hand over his face, rubbing relatively hard in an attempt to straighten the frowns and lines of frustration. He wasn’t paid enough in his job and certainly not enough to deal with Sherlock. He looked back at the Consulting Detective when he heard a stifled groan from the taller man. Greg wasn’t John Watson, he cannot, for the life of him, hope to understand the younger Holmes or deal with him just as effectively as the ex-army doctor; but he thought that Sherlock’s groan seemed distinctively and uniquely laced with distress and dismay. Being the sensible older man he ought to be, Greg let out a sigh and glanced about the room to keep his temper at bay. He wasn’t really surprised to see that he and Sherlock were already left alone. The sneaky _traitors_ had left him to fend for himself while under the prat’s ire. While the whole Scotland Yard’s code for the last week was to undergo as little contact with their regular Consulting Detective as possible, Greg vowed he’d have more paperwork for them lot.

 

“That was careless and rather unthinking of you, Lestrade.” Sherlock insisted deprecatingly.

 

“What? That I _called_ him?” Greg asked, riled, his voice confrontational. “I can call him as many times I bloody want, Sherlock.”

 

“You ever need me, you send me a text.” Sherlock continued—his voice clipped and insistent. “Don’t bother John anymore. It’s just a simple math. Surely you can understand.”

 

“I had wanted to check up on him if you really must know.”

 

“Don’t do that, then.” Sherlock persisted matter-of-factly. “He’s fine.”

 

Greg thought to himself that an ex- cocaine junkie’s judgment of people’s well being wasn’t really reliable but he kept it to himself.  Sherlock’s eyebrows were still arced crossly as he seemed to seriously chew over something; the look wasn’t the one he used when deducing but the look suggested that the Consulting Detective was pondering over something that seemed foreign to him—scratch that, it’s _worrying_ ; He actually seemed to be worrying about something, the matter Greg had his suspicions about. He has long suspected that Sherlock and John were sort of having a dispute, a disagreement, a quarrel, or whatever it is they’d call in their relationship.

 

“Things between the two of you okay, Sherlock?” He ventured sympathetically.

 

Sherlock looked thoughtfully at him for a second before pushing his gloved hands inside the pocket of his coat and answering, “I believe we’re done here, Inspector.” Retrieving his phone and thumbing at the keypads, he started towards the door, his head bent down at the screen. “The victim’s uncle, you should get hold of him before he flies to the country side.”

 

“Got it the first time you explained.” Greg conceded as he followed the taller man out of the crime scene. He heard Sherlock mumble a “wasn’t sure you did” under his breath and Greg just shook his head and let it pass.

 

On the way out, he met Sally, Anderson and some cop’s guilty eyes and conveyed his message with his own stare _.  ‘Wait till we get back at the Yard.’_ He saw their acquiescence before they scrambled as one pack back to the room with the dead body.

He had originally planned to just see Sherlock out the building when he noticed a familiar man standing outside the yellow tape. He wore what seemed to be full office attire with cream colored trousers and matching coat, well maintained boots and a hat, of all things. The man was looking expectantly in their direction. Greg stopped dead in his tracks as he recognized the face and felt the familiar brush of dread at the pit of his stomach. Behind him, Sherlock had also appeared to have noticed the other man’s presence for without breaking stride, he’d immediately went in a beeline towards his direction.

 

It was a mystery to why Greg did it, perhaps because of the need to pay a little amount of courtesy even when it was the least of the things he’d like to do at the moment, but being the responsible man that he was, followed suit.

 

“I told you we’d meet at your place.” Sherlock drawled as soon as he got over the yellow caution tape.

 

“I wanted to surprise you. I missed London.” The man replied confidently, his voice chipper and whole. “Coming here was hitting two birds at one go.”

 

“Completely unnecessary, I must say, as coming to this particular neighborhood wouldn’t really gratify you with experiencing London.”

 

“Well, you’re here,” The man countered cheerfully, “and so is my friend Detective Inspector Lestrade.” He finished as he acknowledged Greg’s presence behind Sherlock.

 

“Not your friend, Trevor.” Greg greeted lightly, flashing a most minute strained smile. “So you came back.”

 

“Indeed. Never said I wouldn’t.”

 

“A bit earlier that I’d expected though.”

 

Trevor let out a rich guffawing laugh that demanded bystanders’ attention. Frankly, it was one of the many things Greg himself hated, the unnecessary action, the non too subtle move that draws needless notice. “You make it sound like you don’t want me around, Greg.”

 

And over familiarity, Greg added to his growing reminders of the things he didn’t care for.

 

“Your words, Trevor.” He answered with a shrug. “So, how’s the other country doing it for you?” Greg asked trying to be civil about it. He risked a glance at the Consulting Detective who by now has remained quiet. The tall man had spared them a speck of his attention before getting wrapped over his own handheld device back again, his fingers firing off at the keypads uninterrupted. Greg had the passing thought that the Consulting Detective predicted how long proceedings that demanded social niceties took.

 

“Oh, it’s been lovely.” Trevor preened. “I wish I’ve taken the camera with me so I could show the pictures with you. Maybe we can go for a pint some other time?”

 

“Maybe.” Greg shrugged. “Don’t really have the time most of these days.”

 

“Ah, yes. Sherlock’s told me about the cases. Nice to see you’ve been doing well, Greg.” Trevor continued -that suave smile of his never faltering.  “But I bet you’d have been swarmed if it wasn’t for Sherlock here.”

 

Greg grimaced and pursed his lips tight.  He imagined he could pop a vessel somewhere in his head with the number of times he’d attempted to rein his temper in lieu of common sense. He looked at the younger Holmes, the very man Trevor took credit for, to bid time. Sherlock had remained impassively quiet during their exchange, looking over his phone now that the torrent of texting seemed to have been accomplished. The Consulting Detective seemed to have drifted off to his own thoughts, mulling over something Greg doesn’t know about but desperately wanted to. It had the likeness of the look the detective has worn during their earlier conversation at the crime scene.

 

“I bet.” Greg muttered, belatedly realizing that he didn’t give Trevor an answer. “So, are you here for good or vacation?”

 

“No, of course not.” Trevor had emphasized by shaking his head. “As much as I love London, I need to be in the States. I just came here for Sherlock. After all, we don’t want him getting bored.”

 

Greg had the brief memories of Sherlock’s earlier days flash in his mind: of Sherlock drugged to his eyeballs with cocaine, his pale, cold forearms bruised and battered with needle sticks, his smell tangent and foul with cigarette smoke and sweat, his limbs shaking with minute tremors and his movements uncoordinated compared to the sharpness of his mind. Greg had to associate those days with Trevor, Sherlock’s university pal and the main culprit and accomplice in dragging the Consulting Detective’s ass to the wrong side of the world. Greg inwardly castrated himself. That wasn’t wholly true. Sherlock after all was a grown man who had chosen to stick himself full of needles even without Trevor…But now Trevor’s back and Greg didn’t like it at all. It did not bode well when the water has finally gone still and quiet and one suddenly threw in a flailing rat.

 

“He’s never bored anymore.” Greg declared boldly, his voice testy. He had even titled his chin up a little, proud at the man Holmes had become.

 

“What? Because of the cases?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Then it’s still thanks to me.” Trevor huffed, his smile condescending. Greg frowned at that. While the man’s statement didn’t make sense, Greg just decided to put it with the man’s irrational need to take credit for the younger Holmes. “It’s after the cases because he’s bored.” The man reasoned deprecatingly.  “What would he do with his free time after the cases have been laid to rest? Say, like right now? He’s always bored.”

 

“You get a drop of drug in any manner or form on him and I swear I’m dropping him off from the cases and locking your ass up before you could fly away to another country, Trevor.” Greg said without pausing to hold his breath. Just thinking about it was enough to raise his hackles. He heard the distant voices of Anderson and Sally as the two were exiting the building. They’d be joining them soon. It was better to end the conversation quickly.

 

Trevor paused briefly before flashing a full smile and chuckling the merry little laugh of his. “Are you threatening me, Detective Inspector?”

 

“I’m wearing a badge, Trevor.” Greg simply said even as he let out a sigh. “Just doing my job is all. Your reputation isn’t exactly a clean slate.”

 

“I’m not the one with police record.” The other man jovially shot back then grinned.  His eyes on Greg, Trevor inched closer to the Consulting Detective who now seemed to be suffering a fuge while staring blankly at his mobile. “No worries, mate. I’ll keep watch.” Trevor continued with a leer even as he pulled at Sherlock’s coat to emphasize a point. The detective compliantly allowed the action and permitted himself to be pulled a little closer, his mind still drifting off to whatever Palace it was that John has always mentioned whenever Sherlock has become unresponsive. _John_. It was the thought of the doctor’s name that prompted the next words from Lestrade.

 

“Drugs really weren’t the only ones we were good together at…” Trevor was saying provocatively, the innuendo rolling out like stinking waves. It made Greg a little haughty and argumentative.

 

“Well, no matter. Someone responsible is already keeping watch on him. Plus, I bet John wouldn’t be as agreeable with destructive stuff such as drugs.”

 

“John?”

 

Greg frowned at the puzzled look on Trevor’s face while he himself was caught in surprise by the other man’s retort “Wait. You haven’t met him?”

 

“John? Oh! The ex-flat mate! So that’s what his name.” Trevor exclaimed as comprehension dawned on him.  Beside him, Sherlock bristled at the mention of the doctor’s name, his attention quickly snapping back at them as he seemed to have pulled himself together. “See, Sherlock here hasn’t really told me much.”

 

“Victor.” Sherlock hissed in warning.

 

“Ex?” Greg spluttered indignantly. “ _Ex_ -flat mate?” He bellowed, looking demandingly and expectantly at the consulting detective. Damn ponce ought to explain that.

 

“Not your concern, Lestrade.” Sherlock simply said as he placed his mobile back onto the pocket of his pants and _huffed_. Bloody git had the audacity to huff at him and attempt to dismiss him.

 

“What did you do to make John leave?” Greg persisted. It was the most natural question to ask. There wasn’t a need to spare a second to think about it. He’d met the man. John Watson had the patience of a saint. He wouldn’t have left or abandoned Sherlock for any cause even when the younger Holmes was the very symbolic personification of that which shatters patience from any man. Greg had observed for a great number of times how the doctor would lit up at crime scenes. How he would secretly look up at Sherlock with unmasked admiration of the latter’s out of the world deductions. He wouldn’t have left on his own volition

 

“Wrong!” Sherlock hissed, as if reading his mind. “John left. It was not I who deserted 221 B. He chose to leave when I specifically told him not to.” He stated, his voice dripping darkly with bitterness. It did not escape Greg’s notice how Sherlock seemed to have cringed at his own admission.

 

Greg opened his mouth to ask the questions at the forefront of his mind regarding the revelation, the mystery surrounding John’s absence and Sherlock’s accompanying black moods coming to light at long last, when he caught the flash of blonde hair, the pleasant face and the unmistakable posture of a self assured man coming out of the building across the street. It was the very man of the spotlight. He ignored Sherlock as he continued to look at John Watson coming out of the unfamiliar building, a tall bulky man with the same blonde hair by his side. The other man had a good form and a good stance, his face was careful and non descript.

 

Sherlock must have read everything from his face for the latter had suddenly whipped around to face the street. Greg saw how the other man, John’s companion, stood in front of the doctor, effectively blocking them from viewing the shorter man who has been absent for so long.

 

Sherlock’s breath hitched.

 

Then Greg saw the blonde man grabbed at John’s arms and swiftly bent down. Greg had the passing irrational fear that he would kiss John but it turned out he was going to whisper at the doctor’s ears. Then as if it was the world’s prank for him, the bigger man was suddenly explicitly snogging the living daylights out of John out here in the street. The gall of the lucky bastard.  Greg wished his detective instincts weren’t kicking in at the moment but they were. He could make out how John was comfortably kissing back, his shoulder—at least the one side that Greg could see—was relaxed. John didn’t clutch back at the other man, his arms remained passive on his side, but it just gave Greg the distinct impression how controlled and responsive the doctor was with the way the latter was merely angling his head to accommodate the kiss and only using his mouth to receive and give back. Gregory Lestrade felt a familiar long buried desire flare up in his flank. There was something transfixing and captivating at the sight that has painfully and wonderfully unfolded before him. He hadn’t even thought of checking Sherlock’s reaction only after John and the stranger had ended their fiery kiss and the stranger turned on his heel then quite unpredictably looked directly at the Consulting Detective. John remained staring at the man’s face before his eyes widened and followed the other’s line of sight. Then John Watson was looking back at them with unveiled look of shock on his face, his mouth hanging open.

 

Greg spared a moment to look at Sherlock. The tall man was deathly pale and seemed as if he was going to be sick. His eyes were wild and his lips were pursed so tight they were almost colorless. Greg looked behind him and saw that Sally and Anderson has also seen John’s episode with the other man. In fact, the whole of Scotland Yard present at the scene were all looking at the panorama across the street. When Greg looked back at the doctor, it was to see that John’s companion had somehow swiftly already left. John was having a staring contest with the Consulting Detective now. It was tantamount to the man’s courage, not bolting or shying away when caught in the red light. Greg, meanwhile, took the opportunity to acquire a better look at John and get his own mucked up thoughts sorted out. John was a sight, wearing clothes that weren’t obviously his own. With such clothes he looked scandalously inviting. His sandy blonde hair weren’t tousled much by the wind which gave Greg the impression that he’d just come out of a bath. What Greg could confer from the evidences, he didn’t know how he should feel about. John had been together _with a man_. That in itself was a shocking revelation but with it came the dozen more possibilities that could explain whatever shit seemed to have been going on between the Consulting Detective and the doctor. It all made sense now. The drama. The separation. Whatever friendship Sherlock and John have shared with each other, they’d definitely crossed the line of platonic.

 

Greg looked between John and Sherlock then at Trevor who was infuriatingly watching from the sideline, an amused expression gracing his face.

 

Then he saw as Sherlock bolted a step, then two, then three more, as if he was being pulled towards John. It was when the Consulting Detective seemed to have made up his mind to cross the street and was gearing up to sprint that a sleek black car pulled in front of the doctor. The side door opened then John’s attention was robbed and he was talking with somebody inside the car Greg couldn’t possibly see from the tinted windows.

 

A roar rumbled from Sherlock’s chest then he was crossing the street furiously without a word.

 

An agreement seemed to have been reached between John and the mystery car person for John spared a stricken glance at Sherlock’s approaching form before he willingly slid in inside the car.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am terribly sorry for posting this chapter so late. Outside world kind of bit me in the ass and I was busy struggling to bite back.


	12. Under His Wing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> .
> 
>  
> 
> John Watson was still under his wing at the moment and Mycroft Holmes takes good care of his cargo the best way he could.
> 
> .

 

 

 

  
_Take me down to the river bend_   
_Take me down to the fighting end_   
_Wash the poison from off my skin_   
_Show me how to be whole again_   
  
_Fly me up on a silver wing_   
_Past the black where the sirens sing_   
_Warm me up in a nova's glow_   
_And drop me down to the dream below_

_Bring me home in a blinding dream,_   
_Through the secrets that I have seen_   
_Wash the sorrow from off my skin_   
_And show me how to be whole again_

_-Castle of Glass_

 

 

**~*~*~**

 

It was a simple equation. Given the short time frame he had been given after connecting the CCTV feeds and the GPS signals secretly implanted on both his brother and Dr. Watson’s phones, acquiring the good doctor would prove to be the least damaging, if not the most beneficial. There wasn’t a contingency plan for this. How could he have predicted that a murder would be organized at the very area where Sebastian Moran lives? It was an elaborately planned Kill, simple yet done for a purpose, for a mere whim of the Consulting Criminal’s right hand man. While he could understand the concept of sentiment better than his younger brother, Mycroft thought it was still a murky area he had not treaded upon often enough. It was sentiment that could explain the thought behind Moran’s actions and it was sentiment that would enlighten why Moriarty of all people committed favor for his man. It’s always such a variable factor, so easily forgotten to take into account which is precisely why he had been caught unawares by the convoluted plot of putting the presence of Sherlock and John together in one place when both had _somebod_ y else with them. While the Colonel’s moves where entirely concocted with the purpose of serving John, it could’ve only resulted into something worse. It already served unnecessary damage and would have been catastrophic had he not intervened. Acquiring the ex army doctor and preventing contact with Sherlock would’ve preserved the possibility of being reacquainted with his fool of a brother in the future, be it near or far. Sherlock is yet to understand his own… _feelings_ and Mycroft is all too familiar with his brother’s brashness and carelessness. It was the right move to spare John all the _unintentional_ verbal lashes that could be generated from the younger Holmes’ mouth. Mycroft couldn’t allow his brother to have that chance to grab at John’s arms and blindly insult the doctor’s intelligence instead of stating an admission of hurt and sloppy apologies. No, not when Sherlock still does not understand. John Watson was still under his wing at the moment and Mycroft Holmes takes good care of his cargo the best way he could.

 

John’s currently keeping his silence, arms folded on his chest as he stared contemplatively at the passing scenery outside the window—if you could call London’s polluted air and familiar infrastructures scenery that is. He was wearing what were obviously the ex-Colonel’s clothes that heavily reeked of strong, masculine scent which, in turn, could only be Moran’s perfume of choice. Mycroft had to give credit for that, for such cruel, ingenuity. Had his brother reached John, it wouldn’t have escaped the Consulting Detective’s notice and would only serve as a form of torment which could ignite unnecessary temper. The doctor’s sandy blonde hair was still damp, curling behind his ears, with varying shades of gold. As was earlier this morning, Mycroft found it lovely. He thought how he wouldn’t mind at all if such episodes would allow him to see John right after the latter has finished a shower. It was a small payment for the extra work he was doing. The doctor’s face was carefully blank. It was with effort, though. John’s jaws are clamped tight and some stress lines were visible on his forehead. Mycroft frowned at that. While the attempt was valiant, John ought to know that he couldn’t hide it from the older Holmes. There wasn’t a need for it but he guesses that it was a form of defensive mechanism to hide away what one truly feels.

 

“Can you not be obvious at staring?” John suddenly said, his voice guarded and steady, still facing his side of the window.

 

“Whatever for?”

 

John muttered quietly under his breath.

 

“I’d have asked you how you’re faring had I thought you were going to answer the question.”

 

With a sigh, John answered, “Had you asked, I’d have told you I’m fine.”

 

Mycroft tilted his chin and smiled that smug smile of his that wasn’t truly a smile. “I see you refrain from truly answering the question, John.”

 

The doctor finally did look at him, one eyebrow quirked up in private amusement, lips dipping on one side. “I suppose you already know everything.” He motioned vaguely between him and the air with his hand.

 

“It’s precisely the reason that I’ve invited you for a ride.” Mycroft confirmed. “We both know how my brother could be _emotional_.”

 

John snorted and rolled his eyes. “Do I, really? I’m not so sure anymore.”

 

“There’s no need to underestimate yourself. Sherlock _cares_ for you.” It was an understatement, Mycroft knows, but he’d learned before not to use some intimate words like love and such in behalf of Sherlock lest the doctor would go ballistic on him, say, for putting words in the Consulting Detective’s mouth.

 

“Right.” John muttered with a clipped tone, nodding sharply to emphasize his sarcasm. “Which was precisely why you had to _invite_ me for a ride—your words. And why you wanted to save me from your brother. I’m not that much of an idiot, Mycroft, I know why you practically threatened me to get inside your car.”

 

“I never did such a thing, threatened you that is.” Mycroft reasoned, his brows lifting in a silent query.  Asking someone to get inside the car with him unless he wanted to be forcedly dragged or tranquilized was hardly a threat when a non enemy offered it. To add, he was going to follow through and make sure John was in good hands. “I was removing you from an avoidable, calamitous pinch. Sherlock’s nasty with dealing about matters of the… heart.”

 

John pursed his lips. His eyes winced in an expression of pain.

 

“I had rather thought you’d appreciate avoiding a scene where the good officers of Scotland Yard could bear witness.” Mycroft added, in an attempt to alleviate the mood and make light of the situation.

 

“Oh shit!” John grumbled as he buried his face in his palms. Mycroft frowned at the vulgar word but otherwise kept his opinion to himself. “They all saw, didn’t they? God, that was embarrassing…”

 

“I could ask them to never say a word about today if you wish.” He prompted.

 

John suddenly gave out a short burst of laughter, one deeply rich with both humor and sourness at the same time. “Like, don’t tell you saw John snogging a man out in the streets?” He laughed to himself then immediately stopped when his eyes landed on Mycroft’s expression, a smile frozen amidst his lips. “Oh, you’re serious. You’re bloody serious about it.”

 

“Of course I am.” Mycroft answered with a frown. Hadn’t he told John already that he doesn’t do small talks?  “It wouldn’t have been a difficult feat to achieve.”

 

John’s eyes had widened by now. Then he grinned a genuine grin, his eyes gentling a bit.

 

“By Gods, you’d really do that.” The doctor said, his voice low as if sharing a secret.  “Right. Don’t do that…”

 

“Whatever it takes for you to feel at ease.” Mycroft answered shortly.

 

“I, well… I appreciate it.” John said, his brows now knitting to a frown. “Wait, you’re still in this taking care business you mentioned earlier aren’t you?”

 

While it could cause inconvenience to Mycroft, he had to secretly applaud the man for catching up at the most important stuff that was merely mentioned in passing the earlier morning. “Nothing to concern yourself with, John.” He said tactfully.

 

“Damn right.” A nod. “It _is_ my business if it means I’d have you spying over the sordid little details of my life.”

 

Mycroft found himself tilting his head and twitching his lips with humor. “I wouldn’t exactly call it _sordid_. I’m inclined to think that intercourse is a natural base instinct for everyone. Besides, it wasn’t as if anything would be new. You’d been under our radar ever since you’ve made contact with Sherlock.”

 

John snorted. “Like an E.T. thing?”

 

A frown at that. “E.T.?”

 

“Never mind.” Mycroft wondered if he’d somehow offended the ex-army doctor but a closer looked revealed that the other man was at ease, the embarrassing confrontation just minutes ago momentarily forgotten.

 

“Do you think Sherlock knows?”

 

“And what would it be that my brother’s supposed to know? He knows a lot of things but he could also be obtuse among many others.” Mycroft couldn’t help it if he was practically sounding like a broken radio, selling his younger brother the best way he could. He was on a business, on a mode to accomplish a goal after all. He could be very intractable, driven. John had winced at the last sentence but seemed intent at ignoring the pun and brushing off unwanted notions.

 

“About Moran.” John exhaled, his cheeks flushing with the lightest shade of pink. “Does he know he works for Moriarty? Would he have recognized him?”

 

Mycroft leveled a look at him and was inclined to raise an eyebrow. Under the past circumstances after the pool, it had seemed right to share their Intel about the Consulting Criminal’s right hand man to Sherlock, albeit, excluding to mention that the ex-army Colonel had been an acquaintance of John. After all, it hadn’t seemed like the doctor would re-establish contact with the hazardous man. It had initially seemed better to keep the doctor in the dark when there was a chance that his irrational thirst for adrenaline would at a certain time prompt him to an ill advised altercation with a master Hit man cloaked heavily with protection by the most dangerous, canny and devious criminal to have ever walked the world. Mycroft regrettably hadn’t obtained enough evidence to tell that John’s acquaintance with Sebastian Moran was bordering that of friendship and a little more or that the Colonel could be holding attachment towards the doctor. Had Mycroft shared the information to John, perhaps the earlier drama could have been avoided. But there was no use dwelling on the past, all he had to focus his attention and resources to for now would be the supervision of the after effects. The recent transgressions didn’t prove to be _ahh_ … gravely detrimental so Mycroft supposed the decision had still served its purpose.

 

John Watson seemed to have recognized the expression on the older Holmes’ face for his eyes had widened and the blood has suddenly drained from his face. Mycroft inwardly applauded the other man—it was something to dwell on later at the privacy of his room, the number of times he seemed to approve the doctor’s person in a day. John had learned well to read the Holmes non verbal language. Whether it was something he picked up while living in close quarters with the Consulting Detective or whether it was something uniquely natural to John, it would prove to save time and energy.

 

“My bloody grave…” John groaned under his breath.

 

“Excuse me?” For it was really incomprehensible. John at times could be speaking his own language, too, the way the rest of the people do.

 

“My grave.” John clarified as he shot Mycroft a side glance, the rest of his face still covered by his hands. “I seemed to have been digging my grave deeper and deeper as Harry had pointed out.”

 

“Ah, that’s a metaphor just now, wasn’t it?”

 

A snort. “No it wasn’t.”

 

“Now that’s sarcasm.”

 

Unexpectedly, John gave out another burst of chortle. Mycroft felt pleased with himself. It was nice to hear the warm, comfortable sounds that came from John. He didn’t know he could do that, make the doctor feel better. He hadn’t strategized about their present conversation after all. Not when there didn’t seem to be enough time after the events plotted by Moran have rolled off.

 

“You’re really _difficult_ , aren’t you?” John grinned at him.

 

“I am?”

 

“And that’s a compliment just now, in case you didn’t know.”

 

Mycroft felt surprisingly delighted at the off handed comment. To his dismay, the car had come to a stop. They were already in front of Harry Watson’s house.

 

John took a slow breath then breathed out. He turned to Mycroft with an honest, grateful expression. His lips were arced into a small smile and his face was open, so very unlike earlier when he had seemed to have closed off. His blue eyes were bright—they were always bright—but they were heavily tinged with sadness now, the wrinkles around the corners painting him into a sullen creature. There was no doubt in Mycroft’s mind how the rest of the doctor’s afternoon would be spent.

 

“Well, I’m here.”

 

“Indeed.”

 

John opened his door and helped himself out in one swift move.  Just when Mycroft expected the sound of the door closing shut, the doctor bent down his head and carefully looked the older Holmes in the eyes.

 

“Thank you for picking me up. I suppose things could’ve gone worse.”

 

Mycroft gave a brief nod.

 

“Ta.”

 

The door did close this time. He watched the doctor until the latter was safely behind the confines of his sister’s home.

 


	13. His Subject

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> .
> 
> While he didn’t know if it was the alcohol talking or him, he was certain that this would be his last indulgence.
> 
> .

 

 

_Dear real world, soil me._

_You who sing a sad song so well  
are without a doubt a world there's no escape from_

_Look at the colors of the fathomless night_

_Won't you give me pain? I want some data  
It's not a dream or an illusion, I haven't even seen anyone_

_Lets get ahead of even eternity_   
_Truly we are angels of freedom_   
_In this world of nothingness_   
_We'll fly, We'll fly!_

_Lets get ahead of even_

\--Miss-Take

 

 

 

 

He had most probably made a mistake. It shouldn’t have happened. In the cold of the night, Mycroft felt the most conflicted he’d ever been in his own life. He closed his eyes and took a slow drag of a long, sinuous breath, praying to all the gods that would listen never to allow his brother to get even a sniff of what had sinfully transpired. Sherlock hated him already to a point. He could never afford to have his younger brother acquire another reason to loathe him even more. It was a weakness he would never have known existed within him.

 

He swept his eyes down at the exposed back of his black car where there lies the sleeping form of the ex-army doctor, inebriated, lulled deeply in the clutch of slumber, seemingly unaware that the other man would not be able to even close his eyes for a minute. Mycroft prayed for his peace, however little peace a momentary ignorance can grant.

 

~*~*~

 

**/Three days earlier/**

**______**

 

His own mind was proving to be a hard core traitor. It had taken just a fleeting, chanced glance to conjure up the worst nightmare-level phantom to pluck and gnaw at his sanity. His waking dreams were filled with an image of a man so loathsome and repelling.  It was the sort parents could use to scare children out of their wits to make them behave, no matter how fucked up a reason that was. John wasn’t a child, though. He wasn’t scared of nightmares. It weren’t dreams he was afraid of but the  _waking_  moments that continued to prove to be torturous. In his mind was a detailed version of the man he’d seen. He couldn’t grab the face of the man long enough in his mind,  _he wasn’t Sherlock_ , but the blurred details were there gnawing at him. In that man’s phantom was a background of being the Consulting Detective’s past, and of being the one beside the said Consulting Detective at the present. How John had known it was  _him_ was the making of the world. What his instinct told him, he followed. He was a man of action after all, having been connected to the world through earth and war and blood. Just a glance and suddenly the man was  _real_. He truly existed. He wasn’t a character born by imagination. He wasn’t a possibility any longer. He was no longer a threat. He was the bane of his happiness. It was yet another slap on his face, to simply put it.

 

His mind was also proving to be a stranger. He was skipping all the steps of the coping process. He was following them all wrong. Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance. He has only been floating between the claws of depression and acceptance. He must be truly wired or that he must be doing a spectacular job of ignoring his whole situation with Sherlock. Even now that the two of them had broken up, a part of him had still persisted and held on with teeth to the younger Holmes. Having seen Sherlock, he still felt the pang of ache somewhere at his chest for missing the man, and shame, and embarrassment for reasons he couldn’t entirely grasp.

 

John let out a hoarse laugh at the thought as he took a sip of his tea while idling about in Harry’s sofa. He really shouldn’t be ashamed or embarrassed but it was there. While the world dictated how he was a free man to do whatever he wanted, his own sentimental heart seemed to think otherwise. He was still Sherlock’s and wasn’t that just agony in the making? But while he expected and braced himself for a night of wallowing in grief and jealousy and maybe depression…he felt nothing. He was hollow. He wasn’t feeling anything as if his betraying brain has somehow decided on its own to contain everything inside, locked up somewhere he couldn’t possibly reach. He didn’t have a Mind Palace like Sherlock, or at least, not that he’d known. But to be unable to feel anything, it was worrying him. He hadn’t felt like that for a long time. Even while he was living the war in Afghanistan and having guns pointed at him, there was always something. It had been only once and briefly that he’d experience the same black mood and it was during the painstaking minutes where he had to endure hearing his officers officially dismiss him from the army. This was the second time. The first time he’d experienced the black mood, he’d spent the night cradling his Sig on his hands like the wonderful temptation that it was.

 

He had to do something.

 

~*~*~

 

**/Two days earlier/**

_________

 

While it was unexpectedly amusing, it was also somehow tedious, taking care of Dr. John Watson, that is. Mycroft has enough evidence to conclude that John was a handful when bored as much as Sherlock, if not more. While Sherlock tended to be destructive, his explosion was outwards, starting from within himself and extending to the lot of people around him. Mycroft often had to manage affairs of multiple people when fixing things for his younger brother. The only mercy about it was the fact that Sherlock didn’t know the word subtle when he went about his activities. Mycroft could swoop in on time. John was the sort that tended to be self-destructive, all the outburst he tended to contain within himself and he does so silently, so sneakily that you would’ve missed him out if you weren’t especially looking at him. He was, of course, aware of the ex-army doctor’s fleeting obsession with suicide the short time the latter had been dreadfully and quite unsuccessfully adjusting to civilian life shortly after he was discharged. It hadn’t been difficult procuring the doctor’s file from the incompetent psychiatrist and corroborating the data to his own observations from the army doctor when he’d initially met the man at the warehouse. It was yet another thing John had successfully managed to conceal from people that even a trained medical personnel who should be expert at pointing out suicidal ones failed at. Then the army doctor’s re-acquaintance with Colonel Sebastian Moran was yet another evidence in itself of John’s self-destructive predispositions. Dr. Watson wasn’t just a bomb. He was a drone, only one that old cut in air soundlessly.

 

Mercy herself lies on the technology and manpower resources accessible on Mycroft’s hands. It was easy to track the doctor’s activities. With the mentioned resources and his possessed intellect, he could discern the pattern. It was due to said pattern as to why he was yet again on his way to offer a certain ex-army doctor a ride. Wherever Dr. John Watson was getting his silly ideas from was something even Mycroft himself could not fathom.

 

The car halted in the middle of the street, in front of John who’d been crossing. A mere text to Anthea would handle the affair and dismiss the law and traffic regulations. Mycroft counted to ten before the doctor opened the door and promptly slid in beside the older Holmes.

 

“Good morning, John.” Mycroft greeted without preamble as the car started to roll by.

 

“This is becoming a habit, wouldn’t you say?” John grumbled, crossing his arms on his chest.

 

“The army?” Mycroft started genuinely baffled, ignoring the doctor’s comment. He at least approved that the doctor didn’t decide to pretend not to know why he was once again sitting inside the older Holmes’ car. “You are proving to be capable of thinking unanticipated feats, John.”

 

John snorted but the older Holmes noted how the man relaxed on his seat and casually leaned against the side door on his right. “Funny you’d only just found out.” He drawled slyly, the corner of his lips quirking in silent humor.

 

In the brief second that it took, the older Holmes had thought about John Watson’s addiction to adrenaline, his missing the war, his ability to co-habit with Sherlock and actually enjoy said co-habiting, his past and recent affiliation with a very dangerous ex-army sniper and present hit man of a master criminal. Rightly, John Watson’s ordinariness along with his distasteful jumpers and his personal preference to blend in with the background could make people get very comfortable with him to actually ignore the exploits no other living soul has accomplished. It was, after all, the reason why Mycroft had once again taken the time to personally attend to a leg work. He wasn’t about to give anything to chance. While there was no doubt in his mind that Dr. Watson was way past the age requirement for joining the army, even for ordinary soldiers not aspiring for officer positions, one could never truly predict how the country could get very desperate for enough manpower to send in the continuing war. Watson had a remarkable record, albeit it wasn’t an astounding to kill for one. Mycroft refused to see it for what it was. John was a person who possessed so many layers than what meets the eyes. There were factors Mycroft couldn’t wholly dismiss such as the doctor’s affiliations. He proved to be capable of holding close relationships with people of noteworthy statuses—of lethal people one wouldn’t normally associate to a seemingly common, good natured citizen.

 

The depths hidden in the complex person of Dr. John Watson, it was something he mustn’t disregard.

 

“I would’ve thought it was pretty obvious how you shouldn’t be able to meet the qualifications to join the army.”

 

“You wouldn’t have come here if you didn’t think there was a chance I could’ve slipped in, say even by sheer miracle.” John said loftily.

 

“While there exists no miracles, I learned from earlier transgressions never to underestimate you.” Mycroft stated honestly. He was rewarded by a smile from the doctor.

 

John looked at him with his steady blue eyes for a second’s breath before he let out a forlorn sigh. “I was declined.”

 

“I know.”

 

“The person I was hoping to find to maybe slip me in wasn’t there.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Have you got anything to do with it?”

 

“No. The credit wasn’t mine this time, I’m sad to tell.”

 

“Then why are you offering me another one of your rides, Mycroft?”

 

“Because we both know where you would’ve headed to had I not somehow intervened.” Mycroft answered.  “Anthea needed the extra minutes to sort out your dear friend and other possible acquaintances of significant positions from the army so they wouldn’t have funny ideas of trying to play their silly army rules according to their whims or attempting to fool the Home Office and think they could get away with it.”

 

John placed a palm over his forehead and rubbed at it brusquely. “They get threatened and they didn’t even know about what and why nor know that it was my fault.  _Great_.”

 

“Not threatened, I assure you.” Mycroft informed proudly. He speaks the truth but he supposed it would’ve sounded otherwise to other people’s ears. “They were merely reminded of the existing British laws.”

 

“I bet they thought so too.” John sniggered even as his eyes shifted downcast. Then a sigh. He was sighing a lot. “Why are you here, Mycroft?”

 

“You know why.”

 

“You can stop it already you know.” John said, his voice sounding tired. “Whatever this endeavor of yours that you’re somehow set upon, it’s completely unnecessary.”

 

“Crushingly vital, I should say.”

 

“I have no more connections with your brother.”

 

“Wrong.”

 

“You really should just, you know, do what it is that you do in your office.”

 

“I watch the video feeds of you and my brother quite often in the office.” He said matter-of-factly. “I assure you, this is part of my chaotic schedule. Should you want not to somehow prove to be a bother, I would suggest that you stop at this rebellious phase you’ve somehow thought you should try.”

 

John bristled and gave out a humorless laugh. “A  _phase_? And a rebellious one?” He muttered disbelievingly. “I’m not trying anything Mycroft. I’m just—”

 

“Bored?” The older Holmes interjected crisply. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d be quite a handful when bored, John. You seem to be trying to preoccupy yourself with unconventional means. Wouldn’t normal people normally go to theatres and watch movies or have dates and shag like bunnies, or immerse themselves in their work?”

 

The ex-army doctor, bless his soul, had only laughed harder, his voice sharp and sarcastic, as if he’d just thought of something unbelievably ironic. “Do you go to theatres?” He shot back, then shaking his head continued, “Never mind. Of course you don’t. And in case it missed you, I’ve actually done that shagging like bunny bit. Work’s out of the list. I’m on leave.”

 

Mycroft’s face soured and he grimaced unsatisfactorily. “Moran’s in another category of his own. That was poor judgment on your part. And you’re missing the point.”

 

John sighed. “I do get the point, Mycroft. I really do.  But whatever I decide to do still isn’t your business.”

 

“I believe it is.”

 

“Why?”

 

“You’re being self destructive.”

 

The doctor had the decency to look away and stare at the passing infrastructures via the window. “Fine, you won’t keep your nose out of my business. So can we just drop this conversation? I won’t be going anywhere. I yield that coming back to war’s out of the table. I’m sure you had Anthea remove my acquaintances from the radar.”

 

“Don’t be vulgar. They serve the country; I wouldn’t have allowed any harm to them.” Mycroft defended, satisfied that the blonde doctor was somehow acquiescing.”

 

John looked at him with weary blue eyes and just answered by smiling weakly at his direction.

 

“Do something customary, John.”

 

~*~*~

 

 

**/A couple of hours earlier…/**

_______________

 

 

It hadn’t been his intention to get drunk. He’d initially thought of just throwing all to hell and following the older Holmes’ advice to occupy himself with something painfully  _customary_. Then it had occurred to him that ordinary people at least go to a Pub for a drink when they had heart wrenching problems as opposed to attempting to re-enlist to military service or hooking up with a Consulting Criminal’s right hand man and having a most debauching shag. In fact, drinking was so excruciatingly normal that John even thought he’d get bored with it at first except that pouring the burning liquid down his throat seemed  _so_  easy that he was doing it over and over without thinking about it. Lift arms, open mouth, take a swig, ask for another mug, then repeat the cycle. He supposed he ought to have worried with the amount of emptied pints that began to pile up in front of him but at some point, he’d also started to feel a little better, a little lighter, as if things would finally get better with a little more time and a little more swig. He had himself again, or whatever was left. It was supposed to be a good thing, this drinking. It wasn’t his first time trying to get drunk and let the alcohol take over like how the Watson genes would innately respond to it. Harry would’ve been proud.

 

While he didn’t know if it was the alcohol talking or him, he was certain that this would be his last indulgence. There was no good that would result with trying to keep brushing off the ugly parts, the slices of life he’d rather hadn’t existed but bugger for him, they  _did_. They do. And John was supposed to walk through it and out of it. He’d have to go back and live his life. He was many things but he wasn’t a coward. He wouldn’t run away from it. Not anymore. Tonight though, he would indulge. There exist only a few things that could have the ability to dig his grave deeper. He doubted drinking would be one of them, especially when he was alone by himself. So many points had already been crossed out on his How to Make Your Life Shit Lists after all.

 

He asked for a couple more servings. The patron’s face was already a blur but he could still make out the worried brows shot at him and the blatant inquiry if he was alright. He answered good naturedly that he was better and paid for the drinks he’d consumed and the couple more he’d have. It wasn’t good to forget getting tabs on his consumption. It would also be a calamity to acquire the patron’s ire especially if he was the boss of the Pub you favored. It was time to be responsible.

 

 _Responsible_. He couldn’t help but remember the older Holmes. John understood where Mycroft was coming from on his quest in trying to take care of John’s affairs. The British government was just trying to pick up the pieces. He shouldn’t be thinking it was his fault though. Even when Sherlock had hurt him, John wasn’t broken so he couldn’t pinpoint exactly as to why Mycroft had to act like a guilty parent of a child who’d mistreated a  _friend_. In any case, John was certain he didn’t hate Sherlock, not even after what happened between them and their relationship so the older Holmes ought to stop in his mission attempting to fix things.

 

It hurt. He wouldn’t deny it. While he wasn’t sure if he’d learn to feel things again, it was time to be professional and get back to his life. He’s not going to be a girl about it.

 

He swallowed the extra servings in front of him in straight shots and like the traitor devilish drinks they are, proved to be staggeringly strong. It was when he stood up on his feet that John got truly aware of how exactly drunk he was, how monstrously inebriated. His stomach lurched violently and his head felt like it was being crushed. He couldn’t help the butterfly giggles that erupted from him. It was funny; getting ‘smarted’ by a drink when he ought to have calculated their strength and his own endurance.

 

A firm hand secured his and looped his arm around somebody’s shoulders, taking in his weight and supporting him to his feet. He smelled the masculine scent of a branded perfume mixed with the stench of cigarette smoke. It was unfamiliar but the body pressed against his side was a welcome warmth. He’d tried to look up at the man’s face but that proved to be a problem when even the slightest movement had his vision spinning viciously.

 

“Come on, love.” John heard a stranger’s gruff voice address him. It was followed by a chuckle.

 

Somewhere in John’s mind, he was aware how he should refuse a stranger’s company especially when he was vulnerable and at his weakest. He couldn’t very well protect himself when he was feeling like jello. But his tongue was stuck somewhere at his upper palate and his limbs were flaccid and useless. It was the easiest thing to do to just surrender and let somebody else take his burden. He giggled and let the stranger drag him across the Pub.

 

He wasn’t sure how he got there, must’ve closed his eyes at some point, but suddenly he was at a dark narrow alley, his back pressed against the cold wall with the chilly air caressing his face. A hand was pressed solidly against his chest and lips were nipping at his skin. It was unwanted. Unexpected. But the touching was tickling him and sending pleasurable synapses around his body.

 

“Hey…” He muttered weakly, thinking how he really ought to shove the unknown man away from his body but doing it so weakly. The man nipped with teeth somewhere on his neck and he was a doll that automatically bared himself, craning his head at the side. His heart beat was getting a little faster as his own body responded to the caress.

 

“Let me do the work, love.” The man smiled against his skin.

 

“No,” John moaned when a hand grabbed at his crotch, cupping and rubbing through the jeans.

 

“Hmmm, I’d say yes.” The man persisted even as he continued his ministrations. He licked at the underside of John’s chin and dug his thumb where the head of John’s cock was nestled.

 

A hand snaked under his jumper and tweaked at his nipple. John groaned. Somewhere, there was a voice that told him how it was utterly wrong, whatever this was that was happening to him. But the voice was so small and so very distant. It would be a relief to just close his eyes and take a break except that the experienced ministrations seemed to be waking up parts of him he truly would rather just sleep.

 

Hands were starting to unbuckle his belt, fingers hooking onto his waistline. Then the other hand was back to cradling his clothed manhood, rubbing him and caressing his arousal awake. John bit his lower lip and closed his eyes. His head was pounding uncomfortably and it was getting increasingly difficult to keep his eyes open. Then he heard a yelp and suddenly the heavy weight of the hands on his jeans were gone. Muffled scuttles echoed in the narrow alley they were in. Feet were stomping around the cobbled stone floor.

 

John strained to focus to what was happening around him. He opened his heavy eyes and tried to see past the darkness. Then there were hands holding him by the shoulder and guiding him back to his feet, keeping him upright. Then Mycroft was standing in front of him, saying something while frowning disapprovingly. John supposed he’d once again done something stupid but he really couldn’t afford to worry about it. Not now.

 

He closed his eyes.

 

And opened them to see that he was at the back of someone’s car.

 

“That was stupid, John.” A familiar voice to his side drawled, the timbre deep and threatening.

 

John felt his heart skip a beat. The voice sounded Sherlock’s. It was Sherlock. He missed Sherlock.

 

“It’s tedious. You really don’t know how to take care of yourself…” Sherlock was saying but John didn’t let him finish.

 

Without warning, the ex army doctor grabbed hold of Sherlock’s hand and dragged him closer. It was explosive. The desire was very difficult to contain when his heart was especially getting wrenched and his mind was filled with chemicals that all he could ever care about was how much he missed the Consulting Detective and wanted him back at the moment. John’s mouth met Sherlock’s clumsily but precisely, his lips and tongue coaxing the other for a response. Just as soon as he’d initiated the intimacy, hands were suddenly gripping at his arms, steadying him, discouraging him. When Sherlock didn’t respond to the kiss, John pulled back and nuzzled his nose against the other man’s neck, inhaling his scent and reveling at his warmth.

 

“John…” Sherlock started. “You’re drunk.”

 

“I don’t care.” He answered, looping his arms around Sherlock’s back. “I just want you so badly right now.”

 

“I’ll get you home.”

 

“Touch me.”

 

“John—l” Sherlock hesitated. “Did the man put anything on you? Are you drugged?”

 

John let out a frustrated growl. Drugged? What drug? But his head was hurting again and there’s a violent twisting somewhere around his stomach. His own hands were feeling numb and separated. He badly wanted to close his eyes and surrender to the clutch of unconsciousness that seemed to start caressing at his face but he was afraid he’d surrender only to wake up and find Sherlock gone.

 

“I just want you.” He breathed. Then he was re-arranging his legs so he was sitting on Sherlock’s lap and straddling him. If he could, he would’ve attached himself to the other man if only so as not to be separated again. He was feeling hot. Sherlock was warm. But even the fires of hell couldn’t burn his desire at the moment. John raised his head and pressed a kiss against Sherlock’s ear, his cock pressing accidentally at the other man’s thigh with the movement. He moaned at the contact even as his body started succumbing to the mad desire to do the easiest thing to do at the very second.

 

“You’re  _stimulated_ , John.” Sherlock stated, surprised. The doctor wondered why it would surprise Sherlock when the Consulting Detective ought to have known that John would always want him. Besides, stimulated was a funny word.

 

“Just touch me right now.” John growled to the other man.

 

His chest pressed against the Consulting Detective’s, John felt how the other man held his breath and then the room was filled with strained silence. It was a long time before John felt the signs of a response. He almost started to feel asleep but then a lone arm was wrapped around his waist and a hand tentatively slid across his left thigh.

 

“There ought to be another way to help you.”

 

“ _Please_.”

 

But John didn’t get to finish whatever it was he was going to say for a hand was suddenly rubbing over his jeans, at his erection. It was tentative at first, but the press was heavy and firm, as if a decision was made and it ought to be followed through. He was an animal that needed to get it done. All he could think about was the electric pleasure he could feel as he grated against the warm hand pressed against his manhood. The strokes got a bit bolder as more seconds passed, as if the only goal was for him to get his release. John didn’t care. He just wanted the man. Like a burning rain. He couldn’t decide if he was getting fried or drenched or soaked. He couldn’t even care that the hand refused to get inside his trousers. If Sherlock didn’t want to touch him, he’d get whatever he could at the moment. He was near. It was so easy. He really couldn’t get fully aroused, much more, he didn’t really think he had the strength to hold whatever it is he could manage to acquire. It would be quick. His breathing was already getting shallow and rapid. Funny how he also started to feel terribly dizzy and close to fainting. He held his breathed and rubbed himself against Sherlock’s hand. It was just a kind of raw bliss, an easy escape, once he reached his climax and exploded whatever he could get out of his system. The hand carried him through, pumping him as he emptied the last of his release. Then suddenly his energy was gone, absolutely zapped and depleted. And he felt like he was oozing out of his own body.

 

It was a dream. This was all a dream. Because it felt like pity when he was the only one serviced and Sherlock wouldn’t touch him out of pity alone. It would’ve been John’s end. But he missed the man and at this point could only care less whatever form of Sherlock he could manage to get for himself.

 

John looked up and gave a weak, heartfelt smile. Then he lifted his face and kissed Sherlock in the mouth tenderly, his lips and tongue conveying what words couldn’t possibly encompass on their own.

 

“I love you.”

 

~*~*~

 

 

_“I love you.”_

 

Mycroft heard the magic words and felt his whole world come crashing down at him. He had been wrong. It was a mistake. The pieces he hadn’t seen suddenly forming another picture.

 

John broke the kiss by his own and laid his head against Mycroft’s shoulder where he’d obviously fallen asleep about a few seconds later while the older Holmes had remained still and silent as a corpse.

 

John Watson wasn’t drugged. He was bloody drunk. Everything was a plea for Sherlock.

 

_“I love you.”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	14. Shadow over His Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> .
> 
> It was a war continually being waged, the upper hand getting tossed around like a ball.
> 
> .

_ _

_I'm holdin' on your rope,_   
_Got me ten feet off the ground._   
_And I'm hearin' what you say,_   
_But I just can't make a sound._

_\--Apologize_

 

 

 

He had long ago forfeited the idea that the dullness of the world could ever be eradicated. It was a consistency he just had to live with, had to suffer along during the remaining years of his life. It was the mother of torture and her devices were the cruelty his sharp mind just had to bear. With the dullness of the world came the boredom—and it was the most painful form of punishment. It was the one factor that has the juice to have his wonderful, brilliant mind to turn in on him. He’d seen victims of crimes who had to snuff out their own lives from the sheer amount of torture they’d suffered. He’d witnessed people forced to kill themselves in order to save a loved one. _Sentiments_. Blah. This wasn’t any different from what Sherlock had to bear most of the times, only possibly much significantly worse. A person like him could only have himself as his biggest enemy after all. But then came the drugs and cocaine and they were such delightful little things that took him to challenging, arousing, and so stimulating rides every time boredom herself would come creeping at the edges of his mind. They provided a sure fire escape and the succeeding contacts with them were always better, more exhilarating. He had the best cure. But then came Victor one intoxicated night and suddenly he had a partner, a real person that took the rides with him, and boredom wasn’t a problem anymore. The rush of drugs on his veins turned more potent and enjoyable. He had more cards in his hands, more interesting options, as to what to do with the influx of nerves and energy and giddiness on his blood. It was simply fantastic. There was an inlet and an outlet. It was getting inebriated the best way possible and indulging to pleasures the most intense one could be capable of.

 

Eventually, as often as he heard from unimportant lot, there came the day when his own body had failed to keep up with the strength of the heady, double-crossing chemicals and his mind has become the slave of something simply _buyable_. It was dreadfully insulting. It was the red beacon that had him think twice. His sharpness was getting blunt. It was the drugs that started to buy his mind. If Mycroft succeeded in enlisting him to a rehabilitation program, it was also partly due to how weak he’d somehow been reduced to. He wouldn’t be anything or anyone without the magnificence of his mind. It’d be a deal breaker.

 

Months later and he was cured. He was once again in possession of his own faculties. Whereas it ought to be a cause for celebration as the dull people would typically say, the world has also turned to being brutally dull and boredom was once again on her finest. It was a war continually being waged, the upper hand getting tossed around like a ball.

 

It may have been unintentional and by accident but meeting The Work has purely marked and altered his life. She was the best thing after the drugs, and something that proved to do the job of brushing aside boredom even better. It was sweet and sharp and cruel. And it was all his. The case of Victor’s father was the first spark, the unexpected but not unwanted initiation, and Victor’s seemingly innocent commentary has become his salvation.

 

_“You could do your thing to earn us money, you know?”_

 

In which Sherlock heard, “You could do your thing for a living.” Living wasn’t connoted with money. It was insignificant. He could care not about it. It was the _living_ bit that made sense. He was going to live the only way he could, the only way designed for him. It was the best idea to ever blossom in the whole world. It was the day he’d also vowed to marry The Work.

 

Then Victor left and he was alone with his own devices to combat boredom when the little sneak would creep on him every time there wasn’t a case on hand. Frankly, the days boredom would nip and bite at him were troublesome and he had for a time came very close to getting himself reacquainted with the drugs. It was tedious, worrying as to what to do with the dullness of the world every time he’d wrapped up a case. Then one day boredom didn’t prove to be so much of a trouble after all. And it was the day he’d met John Watson.

 

Meeting John was the best thing to have ever blossomed in the whole universe.

 

Sherlock Holmes just didn’t know it at that time. It was calamitous not to. It was also the day that marked his being the greatest bastard of all.

 

 


	15. His Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> .
> 
>  
> 
> A confirmation and an answered acknowledgement of one’s mistake.
> 
> .

 

 

 

 

~*~*~

 

 

_How is this love when it doesn’t seem like it_

_When I feel like a winged insect, like ash, like garbage_

_It’s not enough for me to just live_

_I do love you, I do, but I can’t do anything about it_

_I’ve become light as ash_

_What is love then, if that is not it_

_I won’t tease you with my fingertips_

- _Hamoushi no Youni_

 

 

 

Everything was in chaos. A disaster. He couldn’t even decide where to put his hands. He wanted to tear himself apart, wanted to dig his fingers through the convoluted flesh of his brain, wanted to peel the layers of his skin off his arms, wanted to grind his teeth so crushingly hard that they bleed. He was in a restless calamity. It was him knowing he couldn’t stay put when things aren’t put into right, when the world was being so stubbornly wrong and irritating and just so _misplaced_. It was him remembering the sight of John Watson across the street getting mauled by an insignificant pest who so happened to be the right hand man of Jim sodding Moriarty. Talk about irony, sometimes the universe just happens to have a foul, unwarranted humor. Army pest had no business touching his John because of course John was…is… _His_. And that was the nucleus of the problem there. John _left_. John walked away and that’s what Sherlock couldn’t figure out why. It eats at him grindingly. That was the unforeseen factor right there that had set aside the gravity of his world apart and misaligned. He hadn’t considered that John would leave. It was an abomination. Just the idea of mulling over it before was abhorred and immediately purged by his brain, the image thrown out of his Mind Palace when such a thought didn’t even deserve the confines of the dungeons.  It was his own damn fault for not having factored that the ex-army doctor would leave just because he himself couldn’t. And now everything was in disarray and while the universe had seemed so predictable and unchangeable before, he found himself lost and confused over his own chest board.  There’s always something! Of course John would leave. That’s what ordinary people do and that’s what was so maddeningly incomprehensible. He hadn’t any intention of flushing John out of his life. Ending their sexual relationship hadn’t meant he was choosing one over the other. He’d have kept him close by. They’d still have tea in the morning or rather, John will have tea in the morning while Sherlock would mind his experiment, they’d have cases on their good days and they’ll have Chinese in the evenings. He’d even occasionally humor John on weekends with his Bond Films that are just so utterly impossible and claptrap. They’d have kept their lives; they’d still be wonderful together. Instead John left and Sherlock was proven wrong. And as a result there’s this gaping hole of unease somewhere in the flat, somewhere in his chest. A growl of frustration rumbled from his chest as he allowed his hand to pull at his curls.

 

John Watson. With another man.

 

Sherlock was no fool. He had of course factored on the inevitably of John entering a relationship with someone else. It had always been the case before the two of them officially hooked up after all. What he had always pictured in his mind though were images of women whose faces were all a blur and thoroughly forgettable. While he had deduced the doctor’s bisexuality, he had also observed and concluded how John preferred his relationship with women, way more conventional, less predisposed to call attention and notice from people, easier to handle. It was him, Sherlock, who was the exception and hadn’t he secretly taken pride in that? 

 

_John with another man_. Or _other men_. While the idea was still distasteful and vile, he certainly thinks he could live with it. They wouldn’t have been able to truly grasp and consume John the way he was able too. Others would remain conscientiously insignificant. Whatever relationship established would be nothing more than the gratification of the physical needs, of what would remain absolutely just a transport. John would spend time with someone, one who would forever remain in the background, but John would always consistently come for him when he calls, inconvenient or not.  In his opinion, there exists a very limited amount of people who can truly satisfy the cravings of Dr. John Watson. Jim Moriarty’s right hand man shouldn’t be included in the circle. Sherlock wasn’t a boulder. He’d feel jealous and hurt but he’d have lived with that. He’d mentally prepared for that since a long time ago. But he could always visit his Mind Palace and John would remain part of his life.

 

But John left and he was last seen with the Consulting Criminal’s bastard of a man. It was unacceptable. It was repulsive.

 

Wrapping the silken dress robe tighter against him, he roughly threw himself face first onto the sofa. He’d have much preferred to shoot at Mrs. Hudson’s walls but John had taken the Sig with him. He’d have wanted to hurl the coffee table with his foot but John wouldn’t have approved of it. He’d have wanted to splash acid on to the carpet but he could already see John’s face distorting with disapproval. He’d have wanted to plunge a needle or two onto his arm but he could sense a part of him flashing red flags just at the mere notion of entertaining the idea. He’d have wanted to do a lot of things but he settled on bodily crushing against the sofa because the other things he’d have preferred to do didn’t appeal rightfully so, not when there was no ex army doctor to verbally express his displeasure and disapproval. Things were so disconcertingly different now.

 

He wondered how people’s funny little minds would cope with this.

 

The chime of the bell echoed around the flat. He heard the muffled voice of Mrs. Hudson exchanging pleasantries with someone who was deliberately keeping a low, careful reply. He then heard the sound of the door closing followed by series of steps trudging through the stairs. Slow, heavy steps that have started to slow down and become lighter the more the person drew closer to his door. More than the person getting tired as he progressed through the steps, Sherlock thought there was also a bit of hesitancy as the drops of feet became purposely light and sly.

 

He frowned, his face scrunching up against the texture of the mattress. Mycroft and ‘ _hesitancy_ ’ didn’t blend well together especially not anywhere near Sherlock where the latter was bound to discern it. Had Mycroft been somewhere out of his debts, he’d have stayed to conversing with Sherlock through texts, phone calls or his secretary. Having footsteps that were obviously directed with hesitancy in the Consulting Detective’s threshold wasn’t something his brother would’ve willingly risked sharing. Sherlock counted the seconds it took before the door creaked open and his brother came striding towards him, this time confident and purposeful.

 

“Good evening, brother.”

 

“Piss off, Mycroft.” Sherlock growled, refusing to take the effort of granting the courtesy of facing his brother.

 

“Yes. Let’s be children yet again this time instead of handling the matter like proper adults.”

 

He heard the subtle rustle of clothes and predicted his brother settling down on a chair—because of course Mycroft would have much preferred to sit instead of spending his time on his feet. Sherlock twisted his way until he was bodily facing the older Holmes. Mycroft had sat himself on John’s chair and Sherlock felt his stomach twist viciously inside him.

 

“And to what do I owe this suffering of having you, brother?”

 

Mycroft grimaced and Sherlock saw the corner of his eyes crinkling in an unsavory fashion. It was something he hadn’t seen for a long time. There was also the subtle closing of his brother’s hands and the minimal twitch of his right knee. _Uncomfortable_. Shifty. His brother did not cater to consenting with unnecessary and purposeless movement and behaviors. He was superior to Sherlock in shocking contrast with that aspect that it had become one of the younger Holmes’ distinctive facets. He narrowed his eyes at his brother to indicate how his attention was definitely engaged in whatever this matter that his brother had graciously deigned himself essential to personally attend to was.

 

The older Holmes tilted his head and slid an expression of openness on his face as he addressed the Consulting Detective.

 

“Well, you seem to be _coping_ well contrary to what was expected.”

 

“There’s nothing of a matter that demands coping.” He answered shortly, keeping his ire at bay, his arms tight over his chest and his glare shooting daggers at his brother.

 

“I expected to see the flat in ruins.” Mycroft continued, ignoring the younger Holmes, “Considering that you can be very dramatic most, if not _all_ , of the times.”

 

“This is totally pointless.”

 

“Is it!?”

 

“I don’t see the point of your visit.”

 

“I worry—”

 

“Consistently, yes, as you’ve pointed out already to—”

 

“—to John.” Mycroft finished for him, looking at him with sharp eyes that challenged him in a dare.

 

Sherlock bristled.

 

“And that is of course, where the problem truly lies. In _John_.” Mycroft stated suavely, straightening his back to what was surely to be a well thought of bullets and points. “Until when are you going to be unreasonably obtuse and dreadfully blind? You know you can’t always have the excuse of being emotionally inept so people could forgive you in your ways. What do you need, dear brother, and just how much do you need to finally acquiesce?”

 

“I see everything.” Sherlock snapped.

 

Mycroft snorted to express how much he believed it. “We both know the doctor could take far more than any of us. The appropriate question would be to ask you just how much you could.”

 

“I don’t see the relevance of the words that are sprouting from your mouth. You should stuff a cake or two instead of using them for something devastatingly worthless.”

 

“You can do better than that.” Mycroft brushed off. “There wasn’t even anything of wit with your insults lately.”

 

“Maybe your fat ass just isn’t worth of my time.”

 

“Do try to restrain your impulse to be crude.”

 

“This is pointless.”

 

“No. I don’t think it is.” Mycroft said in a slow rush of breath, in an undertone of secrecy coated and filled with the encrypted message of what he truly wanted to relay to the younger Holmes. Sherlock directed his narrowed gaze at his brother the way he has never done before for a long time. While the Consulting Detective has always been wary of Mycroft, has always deduced what the other has been cooking—whatever boring plot he has been poking his nose onto, Sherlock has always done it conditionally—his motor reflexes operating on their own and his neurons firing signals naturally instead of deliberately. He’d have preferred to at least have a part of him tucked in somewhere, unsullied. He was breaking that boundary today as he rose up to sit on the sofa and regard the older Holmes from head to toe and vice versa.

 

There was another expression that he never thought he’d see on his brother. He didn’t like it at all.

 

_Contrition._

 

Mycroft Holmes has crafted and honed his own skills in creating the illusion of absolute power and control and shepherding people to believe whatever image he deigned to project. He’d have said he can walk on water and the dull populace could actually turn in on themselves and believe that they did indeed see the older Holmes walk on water. It was a bit stupid to Sherlock’s opinion but he had to admit that his brother could truly be formidable when he wanted to be in areas that Sherlock himself cannot admit to. It is best to say at this point that the pictures Mycroft Holmes crafted don’t really stay as mere illusions. They become real. The threats are most exquisitely followed true. So it is also best to say that the ships don’t really have a choice in the matter but to believe that the older Holmes does indeed walk in the water. While Sherlock can cause an overlapping of existence, can cause people to ‘jerkingly’ shrink away from him, it was Mycroft who admittedly wields the skill to dominate the corporeal plane. It was a different sort of power that his own brother had desired to specialize in and succeeded at without any sliver of doubt. But the world is such a huge plane for one mind to govern alone; the older Holmes was bound to commit ‘tinsy’ bits of errors every now and then, was even necessitated to test drive some unturned nooks and crannies of the box. Sherlock would have admitted with pride how he’d bear witness to the older Holmes’ failings and how he’d filed away his brother’s disconcerted and troubled facets. Contrition wasn’t one of the things he has seen for a second time after a very, very long time.

 

It was still tucked away in the dungeons of his Mind Palace—Mycroft’s crime of defiling his Stradivarius. It was an insult unforgivable in all ways. It was sullying what was his.

 

Touching what was his.

 

It wasn’t a difficult deduction to leap at. He possessed so little he genuinely cared about.

 

_No!_

 

Not Mycroft.

 

Sherlock’s sharp stare has slackened and darkened, his silver eyes widened in a horrid realization.

 

Mycroft’s eyes slid shamefully onto the floor.

 

A confirmation and an answered acknowledgement of one’s mistake.

 

Sherlock felt his own bile rise to his throat. Surprise, that was, because he didn’t really think his stomach had anything to throw up when he hadn’t had a decent meal for a long time.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I stand on my knees, pleading guilty and begging yer pardon for the tremendous delay in posting this update. I have no excuse but to say that the Dark Spawns of the real world has gotten into me and I had only managed to reclaim my freedom. Got the next few chapters started so I can at least promise not to do this again *for a while*. -___- Work's been kind of sucking the life out of me, like specters draining my soul. Promise not to be so weak again.


	16. His Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> .
> 
> It was a start.

_I can take the rain on the roof of this empty house_   
_That don’t bother me_   
_I can take a few tears now and then and just let them out_   
_I’m not afraid to cry every once in a while_   
_Even though going on with you gone still upsets me_   
_There are days every now and again I pretend I’m ok_

_But that’s not what gets me_

_\--what hurts the most_   


 

 

The thing is, you get broken but you eventually get mended. You don’t get to have a choice about it. You just wake up one day and find yourself all sewn up by your own fumbles and stumbles and by the silly little crap you’ve somehow attracted to your own bundle of mess. That’s just how the body works and apparently, that’s just how Watsons work. Harry had so violently refused all the help John has ever offered her years ago, snapping at her own brother’s concern and offered hands. John had just left her alone then, acknowledging how she was adult enough to fend for her own self. He had walked out of the house, found a grungy, miserable flat with a bedsit then later on found a good flat offered by a very exotic and interesting and brilliant flat mate. That seemed such a long time ago when it truly wasn’t. It seemed that the ex-army doctor wasn’t excluded by the works of the world. He had awoken one day out of a good hangover feeling the pieces of him all patched up and glued together. He ought to have realized that like the time his that body was pierced by a bullet and got irreparably damaged, recovery— like a variable that cannot be moved— still persistently came at a later date. It had its own inevitable process. He had to say  _irreparably_  damaged though for that was what it truly is. While the wound has scarred and closed up, there was no way that the physical manifestation could ever be erased, no way that the phantom pains caused by the cold whisper of air could ever be truly prevented, no way that any amount of time spent with psychiatrists can will the nightmares away. So even when John arose from Harry’s sofa, had a searing shower and drank his very first cup of tea of the day, and even when he’d donned on his jacket after a call from the clinic and deciding it was finally time to get back to work, he still felt like a walking lego among the genuine flesh walking along the street with him. He still felt groundless, gliding among these people, breathing but not feeling the air enter his lungs. He had awoken realizing he was fine, sewn and mended, even when he can see the lines on his skin holding him together.

 

It was a start.

 

 

~*~

 

_Life went on. The end._

 

John snorted over the file he was reading under his nose. That, admittedly, was one poor of a joke especially when he never was one for optimism and for stories of butterflies and rainbows. Sarah had graciously welcomed him back by directing a massive flood of patients on his doorway, the number tripled to how much John used to have even on the busiest he has ever had. He realized of course how she was still a bit sore that he’d taken an abrupt leave without any sort of clever excuse and that this was how she’s conveying it. John made up for that and Sarah’s gesture was truthfully and surprisingly appreciated. Among the ten people who’d come for him with runny noses, sore throats and stomach aches, and among the number who simply wished to get a letter of sick leave out of it, there were still one or two who were bound to have caught or developed something hideously grave and nasty and challenging. He loved diagnosing and treating those. That was probably not saying something healthy and good about himself, thinking like that, but it was a good enough reason for passing his time.

 

He was directed away from his reverie when a steaming cup of coffee slid onto his table. He flicked his eyes up to see Sarah looking down on him with a frown. Then she sighed and the curious frown turned into worry.

 

“I know you prefer tea but I’d advise that a coffee would do better for you at this time.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

“Is something worrying you, John?” she asked hastily under her breath as if she was afraid she wouldn’t get to ask the question had she taken a few more seconds thinking about it. She gave another sigh when John didn’t answer but instead just stared back at her, startled at her query. “The thing is, I was cross with you and I tried to punish you for it by giving you a hard load. That wasn’t me being professional about things. We both know it.”

 

John nodded.

 

“So, I felt guilty about it especially when you didn’t say anything to address the issue and I thought it was you being genuinely sorry.”

 

“I  _am_  sorry.” John said, not really knowing where the conversation was going.

 

Sarah gave a curt nod. “I know you are. That is, until you started staying up late even when I finally stopped on my vengeance.”

 

“I wouldn’t really call you on that.” John tipped his head. “I didn’t mind.”

 

“Yes. I see that now. You could’ve left the office hours ago.” Sarah motioned towards the window. It has gotten dark already and John was suddenly aware of the ringing silence around the clinic. People have already left. He’d bet he and Sarah where the only two in the establishment.

 

Straightening up and deciding to re-arrange the paperwork on his table a bit because he wasn’t really sure why Sarah was looking at him and scrutinizing and because he’d like to think he didn’t  deserve to get fired just because of some minor failings on his part, he casually replied, “Got a bit lost with tracking time. Let me just clean up and finish your coffee then I’ll close up.”

 

“You were—and I quote—  _losing track_  for three days now. I stopped overworking you days ago since I couldn’t have that on my conscience.”

 

“I didn’t really mind it, Sarah.”

 

“This is me worrying about you, John. As a friend, of course.” She said as if needing to add it. “Are things alright with you?”

 

The query kind of pulled John’s wits back altogether.  He bit of the scathing retort he had at the tip of his tongue which has seemed to be his default reply lately whenever his general status was being asked. This was Sarah, his boss and friend and colleague, and she was asking out of worry and not out of misplaced curiosity. He inhaled sharply, as subtle as he could, and looked at her in the eyes.

 

“I’m really good, Sarah,” John said, plastering a courteous smile on his face and relaxing his hands that have reflexively closed into fists without his notice. “I really appreciate your concern.”

 

Sarah didn’t look entirely appeased, a scowl on her lips, but she nodded at the army doctor. “Ok. We’ll leave it for now. Take care, John. Just know I’m here if you need to talk to someone,” she said with a nod before she retreated back and out of John’s office.

 

The thing is, John’s past feeling sorry for himself and past needing the phase to feel reckless, as the older Holmes may have put it. He did need to find something to do, though, because spending the night at the clinic wasn’t on his favorable list, at least not when there aren’t patients to get him preoccupied, and there was only one thing that has popped onto his mind. He had the day off the next day after all and it wouldn’t do any harm to entertain the indulgence, especially not when conversation, decent or not, would be involved. That’s how he found himself fishing the handheld device out of his pocket and calling the one person he felt most comfortable, if not the safest, to spend the time with nowadays.It was reasonable to think that if he was going to spend his time drinking in a Pub, it was best to avoid the same kind of altercation he had suffered just some nights ago. Embarrassing was too weak a word to describe the experience of getting discovered by Mycroft, of all people, while drunk and being so perversely  mauled by a stranger only to pass out on the back seat of a car he had no business sleeping on in the first place.

 

The call was answered after several long rings that he had almost considered forfeiting the idea.

 

“John?” Harry’s voice was crisp and clear at the other end of the line. John deduced she was probably sober and he wished he wasn’t making a wrong move this time around.

 

“Listen, Harry, do you happen to be engaged with something right now?”

 

~*~*~

 

“So, how are you doing these days?” Gregory Lestrade asked as he took a swig of his pint.

 

John closed his eyes and rolled his eyeballs inside his lids. He could’ve grumbled on how people were driven to ask the same question lately to him but the alcohol, small amount he may have taken, still managed to loosen his taught muscles and improve his temper. He had to remind himself that perhaps the blame lies on the program everyone seemed to be channeled with in attempting to engage other people to idle conversation. Then again, he had to remind himself that the Detective Inspector has seen his display with Moran just barely a week ago that he was bound to be saddled with unhealthy curiosity.

 

He must’ve done something terrible in his past life because this month practically felt like the people doggedly orbited around him—that the people he specifically wished he didn’t see for the moment were bound to occupy the same room and breathe the same air he was breathing. Harry has unfortunately bailed out on him with some flimsy excuse that she suddenly had a date and that John ought to enjoy his time and all since he was already at the Pub. While Harry couldn’t have factored in the presence of the D.I. since she couldn’t have known him, John suspected that Harry never planned to show up from the start. His instinct was sharp that way. Harry was probably trying to be clever and was indulging John with one of her prescriptions to recovery. Entering the Pub to find out that Greg was seated in a booth with a half consumed pint in front of him was a surprise. And while John ought to have felt weird and embarrassed with the latest happenstance on his sordid life, he wasn’t a coward. He had to face the other man, as with the others, sooner or later, so he had braced himself with an accepting sigh before chucking caution to the wind and walked directly towards the older man’s booth.

  

_“Cheers,” he drawled as he sat._

 

“Great, I’m great,” John answered as he belatedly remembered that Greg asked him a question. “How about you?”

 

“Good.”

     

John chortled as he dropped his own mug of beer on the table. “What a lovely conversation.”

 

Greg blinked at him then gave a brief laugh in response. “Didn’t reckon you’d want a conversation, really,” he shrugged. “But we’re making an awful one aren’t we?”

 

“Not really,” John grinned wryly over his mug before he took another mouthful of the malt. Greg was decidedly staring at the window and stealing glances that the ex-army doctor decided to relent. “You have questions,” he said and let the words hang in the air.

 

“Well…”

 

“Just fire away, Greg. Nothing could get worse anymore.”

 

“So _, ‘not gay’_?” Greg asked while imitating John’s intonation the way the latter has always expressed his denial about his relationship with Sherlock that John just had to laugh. He has been expecting questions that were entirely on different direction, about the core of his drama he didn’t really want to talk about.

 

“Out of all the things you happened to see and probably noticed, that’s the first question you wanted to ask?”

 

The D.I.’s face colored and he frowned at John defensively. “Can you blame me? Anyway, that’s just the first question that popped in my mind. Is it poor for conversation?”

 

“No, not really.” John shook his head, amused, as he tried to placate the other man’s scowl.

 

“So you’re not gay?”

 

“I’m bi.” He shrugged.

 

“And you and Sherlock…”

 

“So you’re a detective now?”

 

“I am a  _detective_ , John.”

 

“Figures.”

 

“I never thought you were a man of subterfuge. I guess you handled the whole of Scotland Yard’s poking noses and probing mouths quite well.”

 

“I’m a very private man.”

 

Greg snorted so suddenly before his eyes widened as if he had caught himself out of his line of thoughts. The was his cheeks colored and his eyes turned apologetic had John realize that he was possibly thinking about the doctor’s public display of indecency out on the streets where a man ate at his mouth and shove a tongue on his throat.

 

“I mean of course that I’m as private as I want to be.”

 

With a cough, the Detective Inspector gave a brief nod.

 

John was thinking about how he was enjoying this idle, light conversation and how he would have preferred to keep things this way, because he was having an inkling feeling that eventually Greg wouldn’t be able to control his curiosity and was bound to ask a couple or more of questions which are more serious and private in nature when the detective’s mobile rang.

 

Casting an apologetic glance at John, Greg answered his call.

 

The chatter inside the Pub was subdued and peaceful that there wasn’t a need to get outside to answer calls and judging by the look on Greg’s face, the call was probably related to MET work. Greg did turn his side towards John and because the doctor doesn’t really want to intrude, nor was he in any mood for gossip, he just stared around the establishment, looking at people as he let his mind drift thoughtlessly, enjoying the quiet.

 

The said quiet apparently has a thing against him as was the world for his attention snapped back to the older man when he heard a sharp gasp and a muttered cursing breath.

 

“ _Damn it, Sherlock!_ ”

 

John straightened up on his chair. The color has drained from Greg’s face and his eyes were saucer sized with horror even when his mouth was set in a controlled angry line. He was looking intently at John, his mobile pressed against his ear even when John already knew that the other line has already hanged up.

 

It was a testament to how John can take things in stride and as to how he knew the Consulting Detective when he suddenly gathered himself and got on his feet. It was just as natural as breathing that he need not think about it, what he would do and why would do it.

 

“Where is he?” He asked gravely even as both Greg and he dashed off towards the exit.

 

 

 


	17. The Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> .
> 
> He wondered how John handled these constant dangers that could cause his stomach to lurch violently.

_And all my walls stood tall painted blue_   
_But i'll take them down, take them down and open up the door for you_   
_And all I feel in my stomach is butterflies the beautiful kind_   
_Making up for lost time, taking flight, making me feel like_

_\--Everything Has Changed_

 

 

It was an interruption, the one with the worst time, the one he didn’t really wish upon himself. He had to take it though. He wouldn’t have been at peace otherwise. He was responsible that way, answering the call even he truly didn’t want to. Because he was having a very pleasant chat with John and this time is perfectly different from the other times they have both gone together and had a drink in the Pub. There’s a door that Greg hasn’t entertained before but was looking at right now oh so dearly.

 

Then there’s the  _call_. He had to take the  _call_.

 

“ _Why aren’t you reading your texts? Do read you messages. Now!_ ” Sherlock’s voice hissed at the other end of the line the soonest that Greg had pressed the answer button and pressed his mobile against his ear. He just had to give credit to the Consulting Detective’s impeccable timing. He had to swear Sherlock ought to have been gifted with an extra sense apart from his deductive mind.

 

“What do you need?” Greg whispered, glancing surreptitiously at John under his lashes, keeping his voice low and avoiding mentioning the younger Holmes’ name. Somehow, he didn’t think that the ex army doctor would take kindly to the presence of Sherlock, whether physically, or via an electronic device. Sherlock was a presence that could take up the world with the mere mention of his name. Greg would know.

 

“I miscalculated. Send your force immediately.”

 

“What? Just where the heck are you?” Greg grumbled. John’s eyes were staring at the center of the Pub, glancing briefly at the people by random, unfocused and glazed over. The detective inspector pressed the phone tighter against his ear.

  

“The text, Lestrade. Don’t make me repeat myself. Now’s not really the time for you to be dim witted around me.”

 

“What have you gotten yourself into?” he hissed, straightening up.

 

“No time. They may have—”

 

What sounded unmistakably as a couple of gunshots broke Sherlock’s monologue then the line went dead and Greg felt dread blossom at the pit of his stomach as the blood drained from his face.

 

“ _Damn it, Sherlock!_ ”

 

~*~*~

 

Sometimes, as it was at the moment, Greg speculates about how much he didn’t really know John. The fact doesn’t come as off putting or unnerving, nothing unpleasant of the sort. It was just something that carries weight with it until the idea sits somewhere stubbornly and palpably in his mind that it gnaws at him and he cannot ignore it. He’d seen the good doctor at crime scenes, accompanying the Consulting Detective, seen the man interact with the abrasive, disastrous and unfiltered creature of the wild which was Sherlock Holmes, seen the man in the quiet and in the privacy of his own flat in 221 B, or even seen the man while the latter spent his time in a Pub, nurturing a mug of alcohol with Greg himself—as was today— or with some of the Scotland Yard every once in a while. He’s seen John in different environments almost more than thrice a week depending on the cases that Sherlock would deem interesting enough to engage with and yet, he just still didn’t _know_  him.

 

There were gunshots. No one could blame him if he had been scared. God knows how Sherlock on his own could be magnet to trouble and a lot of circumstances that threaten even his own life. Not that he had expected anything from John, not when he didn’t really have time to wonder how he expected John to react to the news, to Sherlock miscalculating and having guns fired at him one way or another, but he sure wouldn’t have expected John to simply give a nod, blink a couple or two and calmly ask about the dreadful phone call as he ushered Greg back towards his car. It was as if the doctor was used to it, as if he lived with it that it didn’t really surprise him anymore one way or another, as if it was included in the natural order of things. Perhaps they are just that for whatever it is, it didn’t stop John from calmly firing off firm, subtle, courteous but unyielding orders at Greg to call and send for more officers towards the site Sherlock mentioned and that they should go ahead, the two of them. If anything, John’s eyes seemed brighter, livelier, and more alert. They were so blue and determined. The doctor’s jaws were relaxed, shoulders poised squarely but were otherwise unstrained, his breathing steady and controlled. As Greg was steering his car along the streets of London, his hands sweaty and cold on the wheel, he couldn’t help but break the silence.

 

“Aren’t you worried?”

 

John seemed surprise at his question, his eyes widening a fraction as if he really couldn’t believe that Greg thought that way. “I’m not?”

 

“There were gunshots.”

 

“So you told me,” John answered, tilting his head.

 

“This happened to the both of you quite often, then?”

 

“A little,” John answered shortly as he stared outside his window which Greg understood as a cue how the other man’s didn’t want to talk about it.

 

The rest of their ride was enveloped in strained silence and Greg took the time to mentally prepare himself for the case and ignore whatever curiosity the presence of John Watson elicited from him. It was only when Greg pulled the car to a stop near an abandoned warehouse Sherlock’s text indicated that he heard John gave out a long audible exhale.

 

“He wouldn’t dare.” John dictated to no one in particular, his voice low under his breath, his eyes obstinately staring in front of him, at the gloomy wreckage of a building.

 

Then Greg noticed what he hadn’t earlier; John’s hands rested steadily against his thighs, clamped together, the index finger curled an inch away from the rest—his trigger finger.

 

~*~*~

 

Predictably, they had arrived earlier than the reinforcements that Greg had no choice but to go ahead with John. He had no business dragging John towards the site; it was against the rules to involve civilians after all. Greg himself ought to have waited for the other officers before engaging to a situation where firearms were involved. He didn’t even know what it is he was up against. Had Greg taken up the time to wait though, he didn’t even have an inkling doubt that John would sneak out alone and barge in directly. John would have probably engaged in fist fight just to get to Sherlock. The knowledge was just there hanging in the air, planted on the ground, rooted somewhere on his instinct. So when John got out of the car and walked straight towards the front door, he had no choice but to follow.

 

The rusty metal door was already ajar when they got in front of him but they would’ve barely fitted in the gap. It may be narrow enough for a certain tall, lithe, and lanky Consulting Detective but for stocky men like both John and him. A grating, scraping noise echoed from the rusty, unmaintained hinges as they pushed opened the door. John slipped in without looking at him, before Greg could’ve drawn his gun and encouraged John to at least stay behind his back. He was the armed man for pit’s sake. He was the officer.

 

It was musty inside. The musty scent lingered in the air. And it was dark, so dark in this part of the warehouse. He managed to see John’s shadow already crouching low against the dark, slithering silently along the wall, towards another wooden door that was left open. Greg followed but stopped short the soonest that John has gotten inside for he heard another set of dull footsteps trudging sneakily on his side. He had immediately whipped his arms, gun steady in front of him, and fired as another shadow lunged at him, a blade glinting amongst the darkness. It wasn’t a kill shot, the man crumpled on the floor, shrieking in pain and groaning as he clutched on his side. Greg kicked the blade cluttered on the floor away from the man. He quickly set his eyes upon his surrounding, waiting for further threats. The gunshot and the man’s constant groaning were bound to attract more attention and he didn’t have any idea just how many armed men they were facing. When he was sure that the immediate vicinity was clear, he turned his back and treaded towards the room that the reckless doctor has gone to in search of his reckless ex-flatmate. Muttering to himself how this wasn’t healthy at all, how this kind of situation could kill his heart when he wasn’t even that old, Greg wounded his way.

  

There was already another body lying unconscious on the floor. It wasn’t John and Greg breathed in relief. This wasn’t healthy for his heart at all.

 

There was a narrow set of staircase further up along the hallway. Then there was a gunshot from above him. Cursing, he surged onwards and prayed to the sky how Sherlock and John had better be alive and intact when he got there so he could strangle them.

 

~*~*~

 

“ _You utter git_!” John’s voice seethed and that wasn’t what Greg expected to witness. His heart practically stopped a beat or two in startled confusion, giving out from the scare he had once again failed to counter. He wondered how John handled these constant dangers that could cause his stomach to lurch violently. These two weren’t truly healthy for his heart. Not at all.

 

“I saved your life.” Sherlock drawled as he sat on a chair, his hands bound behind his back, his feet none the less roped.

 

John was standing right in front of him, his back to Greg, his hand gripping a hand gun steadily on his side. The doctor whipped around the soonest that the Detective Inspector has entered the same room, and Greg found himself facing the barrel of John’s gun. His heart gave another leap and he thanked his god once again that John didn’t fire recklessly, in abandon, in the excitement of adrenaline. His arms were steady on their aim and he gave Greg a beseechingly apologetic face when he recognized the other man. Greg’s eyes followed John’s gun as the doctor relaxed his arms on his sides, the gun pointing towards the floor and that was when Greg noticed the man bleeding on it. He was knocked unconscious, a bruise blooming at the side of his neck, blood seeping from his hand, and a gun lying ignored on the floor not far.

 

“John!” Sherlock barked out loudly.

 

John grimaced but otherwise turned obediently towards the Consulting Detective.

 

“No you didn’t! You’re tied helplessly on the chair. I saved your ass you prick!” John snarled as if their earlier dialogue wasn’t interrupted. Greg had a feeling that he was intruding upon something when he truly wasn’t.

 

“Wrong. Obvious-no need for you to state it John. Wrong again-don't be dull.” Sherlock reprimanded as if he truly found it insulting. “And do refrain from the swear words. You really should know the difference between an urban dictionary and a proper one.” Then Sherlock unceremoniously set his eyes on Greg. “And you’re wrong.” He pointed out.

 

Greg threw him a curious stare, his mind failing to catch up with the bound, ungrateful man.

 

“You’re intruding.”

 

Greg bristled but he didn’t get to throw a word in because John was once again scrubbing his right hand against his face and hurling another piece of his mind.

 

“No he’s not. He came to save you.”

 

“No he didn’t.” Sherlock muttered. “There wouldn’t have been any saving needed had he read his texts on time like a proper officer—like any reasonable human being should.”

 

“Provoking him, that was stupid. I have half of my mind to strangle you with my bare hands.”

 

“It gave you a second’s leeway to get your shot.”

 

“He would’ve shot you and you know it. That wasn’t good, the thing that you did.”

 

“So it was okay when it was you doing it but not me?”

 

“Not good, Sherlock.”

 

“You  _left_!” Sherlock exclaimed and his eyes widened the soonest that the words came out of his mouth, as if he hadn’t plan to say it at all.

 

Greg saw John’s shoulder bristle and he wished he could see the blonde man’s face. He also felt that their conversation was straying from the heart of the matter as to why they were in that situation in the first place.

 

“You shouldn’t have come by yourself in the first place.” Greg muttered after faking a short cough to capture both of their attention.

 

“Intruding!” Sherlock barked.

 

Greg opened his mouth for a volley of retort but that was precisely when the siren cut through the silence and he turned his eyes towards the window at the far corner and recognized the blaring flashes of red lights.

 

“Well, goodbye then.” John said lightly, detachedly, with a shrug, as he promptly lowered himself to the floor and placed the gun gently on the surface. He turned to face the Detective Inspector when he got on his feet. “I don’t really need to stay for a statement, do I?”

 

“Well…”

 

“I bet Sherlock can fill in the whole report for you, after all, he got here first and there wasn’t anything you didn’t already know since we came here together.”

 

That wasn’t factual at all. Greg didn’t know what happened inside the room with Sherlock and the other gun man before he got in. He didn’t witness the squabble and how the other man was subdued.

 

“Together.” Sherlock repeated blandly.

 

John sighed. “Yes, Sherlock, I came together with Greg. Now you’re repeating yourself.”

 

“You were in the same bar together and had the same ride together.” Sherlock frowned, wrinkling his nose. "Not came together."

 

“Was now really the time to correct—” Then John had stopped amidst his rant when he recognized the sub-context meaning that the younger Holmes was trying to imply. Greg’s cheeks colored themselves when he had pictured the doctor’s words in his mind even when said doctor himself hadn’t intended the innuendo. John’s face colored too but it was of anger. His eyes had darkened and his jaws snapped shot together. He glared at Sherlock hurt and angry while his whole body tensed.

 

“Have a field day, Sherlock.” John drawled. He turned his back and quickly walked out of the room.

 

Sherlock’s brows furrowed as his eyes widened in confusion as if he didn’t understand why the doctor had suddenly walked out of him. He scrambled to follow suit, attempting to get on his feet, dragging the chair with his body only to stumble to his side on the floor. He fell with a groan and a loud thud. His face once again startled as if he had forgotten he was still roped to the chair.

 

He snapped his eyes towards Greg.

 


	18. An Interruption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> .
> 
> They were having a very important conversation and he needed John to understand.  
> .

 

 

_It’s been a while but I still feel the same_

_Maybe I should let you go_

_You know I’ll fight my corner_

_And that tonight I’ll call you_

_I just want to hold you_

_Give a little time to me_

_Or Burn this out_

_All I want is the taste that your lips allow_

_Give me love._

_Love me! Love me!_

_\--Give me love_

  

 

~*~*~

   

 

It was exceedingly, mortifyingly boring, that is, getting tied to a chair for an ungodly length of time. It has gone beyond his endurance, he would dare to think. Deducing the whole life of his watcher along with the latter’s dirty little homosexual secrets have even tasted stale and Sherlock had only stopped himself from launching a tirade aimed to shatter the poor man’s pride in his mad desire to at least keep the filthy gag off his mouth. While breathing could be boring, it wouldn’t help the situation to only possess a single part of his body assigned with the laborious work after all. He wasn’t stupid but granted, this was another miscalculation—it was unforgivable. While the present error on his judgment could be detrimental to his physical wellbeing quite literally, it still surely wouldn’t compare to the one he had committed weeks ago. It was irritating and sickening and just thinking about it elicits a psychomatic ache somewhere in his chest he at times thought he probably could be dying or could’ve contracted a common disease. He had after all been mingling about with his Homeless network and one shall never be sure of their relative fitness.  His weeks had been going downhill and sourly. He shouldn’t have expected this case to be any different. It felt like the world has gone totally against him, spiraling his orbit askew and never for the better. Had he believed in god he’d have thought this was a tangible indication for him to get on his knees and pray for that is definitely what people do. He also should’ve at least factored in Detective Inspector Lestrade’s liability and natural tendency to fault. It should’ve been obvious that the day Lestrade would’ve ignored his messages would be today of all days and the minutes of delay would’ve cost Sherlock to get captured so miserably by the criminals of London. 

 

Suffice to say that Sherlock has been immediately aware of Lestrade’s arrival or so he should hope for the sake of his sanity. He feared the lowering of his intellect the more time he spent cooped up inside the room with a dull man as company in the vicinity. He caught the subtle crunch of tires against the grovel. It was barely a sound, could have been a crack in the wind but the abrupt ceasing of the sound could only be of direct manipulation.  Curious though, for it was only of a single car and protocol would suggest that the D.I. arrive along with several police cars. It did not make a point for the entirety of the dispatched police force to separate so it left Sherlock with two possibilities at the moment. Best to stay alert of his surroundings at the moment. His watcher has been leaning against the wall beside the door, looking just as bored and uselessly sleepy. Had he been expecting company, it was doubtful that he’d stay as lax.

 

The creak of feet somewhere below the stairs several minutes later and the echoing gunshot that followed it told Sherlock that  _yes_ , that had better be Inspector Lestrade. It was the sound of another firm, sneaking footsteps that confidently made their way nearer that bothered him. There was the dull sound of scuffle followed by what was unmistakably the thud of flesh hitting the ground from another room nearby then his watcher, belatedly sensing danger, pulled out a hand gun from the waist of his band and trekked towards Sherlock to stand by his side and aimed the gun towards the door in front of them.

  

It hit him with a certain amount of glee and dread to have recognized the owner of the set of footsteps now carefully paving their way along the flight of stairs that led to the room where he was held. Sherlock would’ve recognized those feet anywhere. He could’ve been deaf and he would still know it was John’s just from the way the air vibrated around him and how the earth echoed his presence—his very presence that was coming oh so willingly towards him. //  _John, John,John_.//   His mind was expanding and bursting and congregating into a focal point. He could’ve allowed himself to drown in it had there been no threat at the moment. It was excruciatingly annoying. He had to act first. John was nearing the door and he couldn’t have the man firing off his gun just as John would be once again standing at the same room as Sherlock after a long while.

  

“Mark,” Sherlock drawled loudly, attracting the attention of the gunman. It was a boring name, so very unlike John’s and saying it left a bad taste in his mouth. “Just because your boyfriend’s cheating on you doesn’t mean you had to commit such an atrocious, predictable act at the same time.” 

 

The man, Mark, was startled enough to shift his eyes from the entrance to Sherlock. His hand holding the gun shook. Good. Now all Sherlock had to do was encourage even just a minimum tip from its present direction. 

 

“You should get yourself tested if you’re so scared out of your mind about the possibility of having contracted a disease from your latest conquest in my opinion,” he continued uninterruptedly.

  

Sherlock reveled at the way the other man’s eyes widened before his face had colored and before those predictable ordinary eyes turned into a hateful glare. That had been successful for that was the time that the door opened quietly and a pair of toned arms pointing a gun entered the room followed by a certain ex-army doctor in the flesh. Mark had caught John’s entrance and he’d immediately whipped his gun back at the door but John had been swift and was already pointing the gun back at him, his hold ever so steady and confident. The evidence has been laid out in startling contrast that even the man Mark would’ve caught up on it. John Watson was a man dedicated in his mission and ready to kill at the moment. He wasn’t a doctor in this room. The room was immediately filled with premeditated intent. There was no question who was the predator at this point but that wasn’t to say that Mark didn’t have the capacity to shoot and while Sherlock was infinitely certain that John was the unparalleled marksman and the better gunman, there was the small percentage that the criminal may still manage to implant a bullet in John and Sherlock wouldn’t have any of it. The world was already in the wrong and having John shot by a lowly criminal for and in the younger Holmes’ presence would be equivalent to the world’s apocalypse, so Sherlock believed. It was not yet the right time for an Armageddon.

  

Instinct kicks up in a marvelous, fascinating way for suddenly, as if sensing his inferiority, Mark’s hackles have been raised, his shoulder tensed, his breathing labored, and his eyes scared and determined. This was a man that could fire in abandon. John wasn’t looking at him and that was annoying too.  The blonde man was staring directly into the gunman’s eyes. Dedicating his silver eyes back at his ex-army doctor who was ignoring him, Sherlock continued with his schemes. John needed his shot and Sherlock was impatient to finally be able to interact with him. 

  

“Tell  _me_ , Mark,” he purred and he witnessed as an eyebrow subtly twitched on John’s face, “to what extent has your fantasizing of  _me_  reached? I dare hope it has managed to send you to the skies.” 

 

There was only silence that followed and Sherlock did not dare waste a second to look at the insignificant man’s face. John threw at him a fleeting glance and a swift glance that commanded him to stop whatever stupid thing it was that he planned to do. Sherlock preened at the realization that the two of them could still communicate without words. John ever so faintly shook his head ‘no’ and Sherlock just gazed back at him lazily but dedicatedly. He needed to dispose of the pest first. 

 

“I wouldn’t have blamed you. Close confines and all. You, still grieving from your loss and needing to lick your own wounds yet still having that insatiable libido. Then suddenly here’s an attractive, irresistible body bound and helpless in front of you. Who wouldn’t fantasize? Do I resemble him?” 

 

“ _Sherlock._ ” “ _Shut up_.”

  

Both John and Mark spoke up, through gritted teeth. He wondered how many times he ought to remind John that saying his name should never be equivalent to a warning or a curse but he guessed it was John’s specialty and the younger Holmes wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

  

“But you were right to lose confidence,  _Mark_ ,” Sherlock snapped cuttingly and suddenly, and the Earth beneath could’ve shook with his voice, “he deserved someone better being a man whore who needed the resources for his filthy hobbies—”

  

Mark had let out a strangled roar of frustration and before he had the time to consider shooting Sherlock, John had taken his shot. The gunfire echoed and it hurt Sherlock’s ears being so close to the man himself whose hand was pierced by the bullet that John had sent flying. John was nothing but focused and agile as he launched himself at the criminal as the latter staggered and dropped his gun. John hurled a blow at the side of his neck with the gun that the doctor has been holding. Mark fell to the floor after a clean sweep, unconscious.

  

An inhale. An exhale. The air.

  

Then it was just the two of them.  _Finally._

 

John took a couple of steps back, lowering his gun at his side yet looking warily at the body crumpled on the floor. He shouldn’t have bothered. Sherlock was positive that the man was efficiently knocked out as he knew John was already aware of as well. The doctor was that brilliant and amazing after all. And dangerous.  Sherlock held his breath as John’s eyes finally settled onto him. 

 

They were finally having the Talk and suddenly nothing else mattered. He couldn’t even feel the ropes burning onto his skin and limiting his blood flow—not when he felt as if he was being salvaged and he could breathe again and he wasn’t drowning anymore. But that psychosomatic ache at his chest was back again and truly, he could not tell and identify the precipitating factors that trigger the attack.

  

He opened his mouth. John’s face scrunched up and he scowled and he frowned and really it was marvelous how John’s face could be very expressive and how he could have multiple expressions on his face at the same time. It was glorious. Sherlock was reminded how he had always thought that watching John’s face was unparalleled and supersedes the Bond films the latter has always insisted on watching. Then John’s face finally settled on anger and Sherlock wondered what it was this time he supposed was a bit not good.

  

“ _You utter git!_ ” John seethed, his cheeks turning into a delicious shade of red. He was angry. He had been scared for Sherlock’s sake when the latter has verbally assaulted the gunman. John’s face was torn between being relieved and being frustrated, his quiet breathing now being allowed to guzzle air more loudly. Sherlock had only done what he was the best course of action. 

 

“I saved your life,” he drawled, a bit indignant.

  

But then Greg came barreling into the room and John’s connection with Sherlock was broken as the doctor whipped around to aim his gun at the D.I. Sherlock felt something inside him shatter in rage. John was a bit too intense and focused when he was on his soldier mode. Sherlock thought about pushing John against the far wall and attacking his mouth only that Sherlock was tied on the chair and that he wasn’t allowed to touch John sexually anymore, both by choice and not, and that Greg was currently being a distraction. They apparently were exchanging unnecessary courtesies and that was boring and Sherlock needed John now.

  

“ _John!_ ” 

 

“No you didn’t! You’re tied helplessly on the chair. I saved your ass you prick!” John volleyed easily even as he responded to the younger Holmes’ call.

  

 “Obvious. No need for you to state it John.” Sherlock reprimanded even as he was reminded that he was still bound on a sodding chair. “And do refrain from the swear words. You really should know the difference between an urban dictionary and a proper one.” John could really have a filthy mouth when he thought it was called for. Sherlock could hear the engines of Greg’s mind turning and he was still feeling cross with him that he’d thought to straighten things up.

 

 “And you’re wrong,” he told the D.I. and because the older man seemed to need clarification he added, “You’re intruding.”

 

“No he’s not. He came to save you.” 

 

“No he didn’t.” Sherlock muttered. “There wouldn’t have been any saving needed had he read his texts on time like a proper officer—like any reasonable human being should.” It was true.

  

“Provoking them, that was stupid. I have half of my mind to strangle you with my bare hands.”

  

“It gave you a second’s leeway to get your shot.” _The point._  

 

“He would’ve shot you and you know it. That wasn’t good, the thing that you did.” Stubborn, stubborn man.

  

“So it was okay when it was you doing it but not me?” Sherlock asked because he needed to understand why John was so angry at the moment. He’d have thought that the doctor would’ve understood the purpose of his action given that John also possesses the tendency to face risks head on during their stake outs when he thought it was called for.  While Sherlock would always crowd at John and be a little rough with him later when they were in the privacy of their flat, he had never vented his anger with the man every time the doctor would have a close call during their cases. He needed to understand and John wasn’t telling him.

  

“Not good, Sherlock.” And it was there with the way that John’s brows arced into a dipping bow and the way he licked at his lips with that sinful tongue of his before biting at the hollow of his cheeks that Sherlock finally saw  _why_. John had been worried and it was the ‘my heart could’ve exploded from my chest’ kind of worry. John was truly a passionate, selfless, brave, amazing man with caretaker tendencies that he is and it only confused Sherlock. 

 

“You  _left_!” His traitorous tongue got the best of his mind and the words burst out in the open. He hadn’t wanted John to leave. It was better to have him, or a piece of him, than to live and bear not having him in his life. And that was what John couldn’t understand. There was no one like him. What they had was different and Sherlock had nothing to blame but the different wavelengths their apparent sentiments were channeling on.

  

“You shouldn’t have come by yourself in the first place.” Greg muttered after faking a short cough to capture both of their attention. 

 

“Intruding!” Sherlock barked. They were having a very important conversation and he needed John to understand. 

 

The police sirens echoed in the silence and Sherlock cursed vehemently. 

 

“Well, goodbye then.” John said lightly, detachedly, with a shrug, as he promptly lowered himself to the floor and placed the gun gently on the surface. There was a look in his eyes that was of painful understanding and pity. John did not want to talk about it and Sherlock thought that the doctor was acting as if he had finally understood. It wasn’t right. “I don’t really need to stay for a statement, do I?” he asked Greg.

  

The two of men were having a dialogue of their own while Sherlock fleetingly engaged in his Mind Palace in an attempt to scavenge for pieces of information that might help him decipher the expression that John has previously worn. It was difficult. The entirety of John’s data consumed several floors of the Palace and he would’ve needed time to swim through them to analyze all the crooks and crannies. He was half hearing the conversation outside his Mind and was only acquiring brief passages when his attention was suddenly dragged rather violently by one word.

  

“Together.” Sherlock repeated blandly.

  

John sighed. “Yes, Sherlock, I came together with Greg. Now you’re repeating yourself.”

  

Sherlock scowled. He thought about how he found it unpleasant to hear the phrasing of John’s words to his ears. His overactive mind created pictures he’d rather truly burn. He thought maybe he was having an acidosis having not appropriately eaten a proper meal prior to getting tied on the chair where his muscles could’ve been strained. That was a very filthy picture.

  

“You were in the same bar together and had the same ride together. Not came together.” Sherlock frowned. He said it more to himself, in a mad attempt to vanquish the traitorous image from his mind.

  

“Was now really the time to correct—” John was yet back to ranting when he had abruptly come to a halt. Sherlock looked up to see his jaw clenched tightly and his beautiful blue eyes darkened to unrecognizable pools. His shoulders were tensed and his limbs were rigid and that called Sherlock’s consideration for very little would bring those signs from John, that not even the previous confrontation would be allowed to grate at the doctor’s nerves unless the danger has abated. John could be very patient.

  

“Have a field day, Sherlock.” John drawled. He turned his back and quickly walked out of the room. 

 

Sherlock had no time to think about it as his mind fired off a sole focus he needed to address most of all.  _Don’t let John leave_. They haven’t cleared anything and John still wasn’t coming back. Sherlock had thought it a very good thing that the doctor was still concerned for his well being and had actually allowed himself to believe that this could be a good start.

  

He did not realize how John’s presence commandeered all of his Mind until he fell squarely on the floor with the chair digging severely on his arms.

 

 


	19. Feel Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> .
> 
> John closed his eyes. This was going to be a long, painful process of titration in a manner of speaking.
> 
> .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the hiatus. The truth of the matter is that I encountered a huge block. There's a draft of the whole plot up to its end but somehow I found myself unable to connect the dots and assemble the bridge. I couldn't enter the Paradigm Shift to enter the Mood for this fic. Then I overcame the barrier for this chapter. I just hope things would flow easier now.
> 
> Thanks for your patience. My apologies.

_There's no use looking back, we can never return. Isn't it nice?_   
_I'll spiral into heaven, trembling with excitement_   
  
_I hum your name and walk across corpses_   
  
_Call out my name like you did long, long ago_   
_I want you to call out my name once again_   
_Call out my name like you did long, long ago_

_\--COYOTE_

  

~*~*~

 

 

It figures. Ironically, it was just a simple mathematical problem. He should treat the matter as is. The formula was painstakingly long but it led him to one unwavering answer. It shouldn’t have been a complicated matter. It did not seem that he’d stop caring for the younger Holmes anytime soon. It sure as hell didn’t seem that he would stop feeling so strongly for him. The incident days ago that led to _bloody_ Sherlock Holmes getting himself caught by thugs and getting his _bloody_ self tied to a chair as a hostage made John realize how he would not have forgiven himself should anything have happened to the Consulting Detective and he hadn’t been there to help. He couldn’t help but feel responsible, could not totally separate himself from The Work. The Work, along with Sherlock Holmes, had been his bread and butter in a manner of speaking, his very lifeline. The car ride that night towards the abandoned building had been the most frightening travel for the doctor. He couldn’t help but think at that time how if anything happened to Sherlock, his relationship with him had ended sour and hostile. Even with his sinful dealings with a certain Colonel who proved to be the right hand man of the Consulting Criminal and even with his recent indulgences, John Watson fancied himself an honorable and practical man. The honorable part of him would not have forgiven him if something happened to Sherlock and the conclusion of their relationship had been unpleasant, to say the least. Even with the tumultuous affair, it wasn’t lost on him how his relationship with Sherlock was still the most treasured and dear, was the best thing that ever happened to his life. Even now, John had to admit that he had difficulty imagining anything else that could top it.

  

If he could not tear himself from Sherlock Holmes, he’d just have to make do with the pieces that were offered. With time and luck, the sting was bound to eventually sublimate. He’d have to talk to the man eventually; it was bound to happen what with them both living in London and all and having the same circle of friends—because let us be honest about it, John didn’t really have a lot of people he could call friends. The people he knew and regarded with respect, most of them he would not even have hoped to come across with without a certain Consulting Detective. This was something he accepted and did not brood about.

  

He was a soldier. The logical next thing to do would be to cross the landmine directly if skimming around its edges proved to be of no help.

  

There was a most welcome kind of calmness that comes with finally making a decision. It was the bland kind of tranquility. It wasn’t really pleasant and it left a bad after taste on your tongue but it was a derivative of peace nonetheless and it was the best option to go for amidst the line of fire. It was the kind of calmness that fitted that Friday afternoon as he was sitting in a park, enjoying a cooling cup of coffee and looking forward to an hour when he could finally stop thinking about this whole affair and just let time pass by unnoticed like the chilly breeze he could not feel that brushes by. It had been a light day at the Clinic so he was able to clock out a bit earlier than his usual. Sarah had been hovering around like a most unexpected and not entirely endearing mother hen. With a sigh, John had re-arranged his files and scrambled out. Sarah was a friend and a boss. What it said that she was also John’s ex girlfriend who he did not have a problem keeping his friendship and professional acquaintance with unlike Sherlock, John Watson did not want to ponder about. He already had so many clutters on his plate.

 

He supposed he should have known that whatever peace he may have found for himself, that one way or another, Sherlock Holmes was bound to ruin it. The Consulting Detective had the best timing when it came to disrupting the quiet and replacing it with something of his own. He was sitting on a corner bench in the park, mulling about things, allowing his thoughts to wander about without direction, without conscious control, and sipping coffee from a paper cup when a shadow loomed very briefly over him. Then a weight settled on his right.

  

Somehow, without looking and checking his now apparent seatmate, John knew who it was. It would fit. It would be an exclamation point to the internal struggle he had just a couple of minutes ago. Sherlock Holmes had the best timing in the world at times. John Watson wasn’t sure he’d be this calm with confronting the Consulting Detectives had he not reached a conclusion the way he did just moments ago. He knew who it was even before the ocular evidence. He knew even before the familiar scent of chemicals and smoke and a whiff of expensive perfume wafted to his nose. John sighed against the rim of his cup and took another long, slow drag of his already cooling caffeinated drink.

  

For what seemed to be a long time, there was only the palpable, neutral silence that John began to wonder if he’d made the error of mistaking a complete stranger for the Consulting Detective. It happened before, after all, when he used to see Sherlock in everyone. He shook the doubt away with a purposeful inhale. The younger Holmes had grown so much in him that the smell was practically imprinted at the back of his mind. It would have been an elementary mistake to ignore the olfactory evidences. 

 

John afforded a sideway glance at the man sharing the bench with him. Contrary to what he was already expecting, Sherlock was not actually looking at him. The younger Holmes was staring fixedly ahead, determinedly avoiding the ex-army doctor’s eyes.

  

With a sigh, John brought down his cup and held it with both hands on his lap. He reckoned he ought not drag his own bitterness about. He has finally made a decision after all. Stick with the plan. 

 

“I suppose you have something to tell me.” 

 

“You did not even ask,” Sherlock began without preamble, his voice quiet and firm. “You did not ask a single thing.” 

 

John chortled. It had less to do with Sherlock’s statement and more about the ringing truth that the Consulting Detective need not complete his line of thoughts for John to wholly understand. They had grown that comfortable with each other that the doctor can follow the great leaps of the younger Holmes’ sharp and brilliant mind given the right push. It was the undeniable connection, the strong partnership they had grown over the short amount of time. Sherlock had the habit of continuing a conversation he may have started without John’s presence or one he have started days or months ago. It had often rankled John before. It also endeared Sherlock to him if he would be truthful about it. He had a lot of exposure and practice back his time in 221 B Baker Street. Frankly, the subject of their present dialogue did not even pose a mystery. It wasn’t even a proper puzzle. Not for John. He understood what Sherlock was on about.

  

“I don’t want to hear it,” John answered lightly.

  

“You have to understand—” Sherlock huffed, with an edge of irritation.

  

“ _Save it._ ”

  

“This isn’t like you, John. I did not abandon you.”

  

Sherlock Holmes could be spectacularly stupid. He also had the ability to drain John’s patience even when the latter was resolute not to drag bitterness any longer. John just felt exhausted and irritated. He could feel a vein pop somewhere above his brows.

  

“Is is that hard to understand that I don’t want to hear a single thing about it?” John marveled at how deceptively calm he said it. He may have said with harsh undertones but he managed to maintain a certain level of control he did not really expect he had. “I don’t want to hear his name out of your mouth. I don’t want to hear about you gallivanting in crime scenes with him in tow.”

  

Sherlock turned to face him with surprise on his aristocratic face that it was almost comical. “Don’t be an idiot, John. I don’t go to crime scenes with him.” He stated with a frown, confused with the track of the doctor’s mind. 

 

“We are not talking about it.” John snapped, raising a palm towards the other man. “Or him. Whatever.” He grumbled, feeling ashamed that he was acting petty about this petty sordid little affair. His cheeks felt warm. Jealousy was one of the ugliest feelings any mortal could experience or possess. In John’s case, he was green with it, consumed by it. There was little he could do about it but it did not mean he could do nothing _about_ it. “And you abandoned me. It’s as clear as meth.”

  

A scowl. “Methamphetamine in its crystal form is hardly clear to be used as an example. They world is yet to see someone who could cook it sublime.”

  

“Shut up, Sherlock.” John grumbled. He had to resist rolling an eyeball. It was not appropriate if he wanted to deliver his point across. Did Sherlock understand the seriousness of the conversation they were having? “Just follow the rules or we’re not having this talk.”

  

Sherlock clamped his mouth shut, his teeth meeting in an audible click. He glanced at John with suspicious pale eyes, jaw tightened squarely. _Good_. John’s jaws were aching as well from the strain, the dull strain numbing his gums. Sherlock looked petulant. It was a testament to the detective’s conviction to draw an agreeable conclusion to this meeting if he was willing to put up with John’s whims. Grimly and briefly, John felt like a king.

  

“Now then, what do you want from me?” John inquired as passively and as detachedly as he could. Land mine. He decided to cross it directly. Straight to the heart of the matter. The nucleus of the cell. The core of a vessel.

  

Sherlock’s eyes widened fractionally but he schooled his features just as quickly. 

 

“Come back to the flat,” he stated promptly, without thinking about it, without a blink.

  

_Git._  

 

“Nope,” John answered, shaking his head minutely, “Not an option.” 

 

“Hear me out then,” Sherlock hissed, gritting his beautiful white teeth. 

 

_Massive git._

  

John shot him an equally flaying glare. He knew precisely what it was Sherlock wanted to say or explain about and he already made it perfectly clear where his stance was. He had no qualm walking away from their first decent encounter since he’d walked out of Baker Street. Sherlock had to know that.

  

“ _Then what’s there to talk about_?” Sherlock half whined, half grumbled out of sheer frustration. John half expected him to pull at his curls but he didn’t. “Why won’t you let me explain?”

  

“It is done, Sherlock.” John relented as he rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the tentacles of exhaustion crawl in his limbs. He leaned back and slumped on the bench. The truth of the matter was that he was shit scared of what would come out of the Consulting Detective’s mouth. The excuses, the reasons, John was frightened to hear them. Even being the genius that he was, Sherlock was still an idiot when confronted with matters dealing with sentiments and emotions. He did not need to realize John’s cowardice for what it was. John was going to live through this affair and give his best without looking back.

 

The Consulting Detective remained silent so John continued his piece.

  

 “Look, I promised you that I would think about it…” he stuttered, “About getting back to being friends.” A shaky inhale. _Harry was going to kill him about this_. “We were already friends before _.” Harry was going to wring his neck for perpetually digging his grave deeper_. John wasn’t known for his wisdom. He was a soldier. Limping or not.

  

Sherlock kept his quiet. It was momentous.

  

“ _We could give it a try_.” John finally said as he stared at the darkening sky above. It felt like submitting. It was almost freeing. It felt the same as the calmness he felt earlier. It tasted _bland_ and the whole of it left a lingering unpleasant feeling.

  

If there was another thing he realized at Sherlock’s abduction, it was that he still wanted to keep a part of Sherlock close to him. Not even some glorious physical gratification and indulgences could negate the simple fact as contrary to Harry’s treatment plan for John. Sherlock was under his skin, inside his bones. Harry would never forgive him but she was an alcoholic who would understand that one does not quench addiction abruptly. Withdrawal was bound to come. One triumphs over addiction by titration.

  

John closed his eyes. This was going to be a long, painful process of titration in a manner of speaking.

  

When he didn’t hear anything from Sherlock, John risked a sideway glance towards the other man. Sherlock was looking at him with intense silver eyes and an expression akin to being torn, as if he was stuck in an in between and could not decide how he ought to feel about this. John casually ignored him and swiveled his eyes back to the brooding sky. It fitted his mood. He was just too tired to analyze and deduce the Consulting Detective’s emotion for him.

  

All in all, John supposed they had finally reached a mutual agreement. A truce. A consensus. An arrangement.

  

It was a welcome but it, too, tasted bland and it wasn’t even partially pleasant.

 


	20. Shadow of the Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> .
> 
> It wasn’t just a conscious decision. It was as if the pendulum started gaining pace again.
> 
> .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .
> 
> I am so sorry for the hiatus. I’d offer you my heart, soul and brain to do as you wish but BBC has already gotten hold of them. I suppose I could offer my future first born but I’m not too sure I’d be able to hold that side of the bargain. I was in all sorts of wrong—err.., still is, but now it’s just the Sherlockian sort of wrong remaining.
> 
> I am repentant and ashamed but, Maker!, I was just as lost as John... err... don't really know what happened. I just lost the trails..
> 
> .

 

_I close both locks below the window_

_I close both blinds and turn away_

_Sometimes solutions aren't so simple_

_Sometimes goodbye's the only way_

_And the sun will set for you_

_The sun will set for you_

_And the shadow of the day_

_Will embrace the world in grey_

_And the sun will set for you_

-Shadow of the Day

 

 

~*~*~

 

If there was one thing John learned in his relationship with Sherlock, then it was the unfailing need to remain steadfastly honest at all times. Stick to the truth, bare your cards and all… He learned many things—what worked, what did not, what proved to be a neutral ground, what set off bombs, what neutered explosions… but there was one thing that rang magnificently loud amongst others. It was the one thing that pulled most at his heart whenever he thought about it, whenever the tendrils of the fact revisited him night after night. **_Honesty_**. Tried as he might to abide by it, the painful truth was that he had failed tremendously at it. He failed dreadfully so. He had allowed his foolish optimism to get the better of him. John had done the contrary. He kept his cards close to his chest and kept them all from Sherlock. He couldn’t keep his emotions in check and even when they have blossomed in an overwhelming capacity, he’d just kept them reigned in and fervently hoped that when the prophesized time came, that Sherlock would’ve grown to love him as much and choose him over an old foretold promise with someone from the past. Sadly, and as have just been proven, these silly hopes were all binned down the drain. He had foolishly allowed himself to sink so deep he almost drowned.  He thought he had braced himself for the pain yet when the inevitable time came, he had been just as defenseless as if he had not seen it coming. His ship had sunk. If he was in the mood, he’d go so far to admit that he hasn’t even resurfaced fully from the ordeal. He had hoped. He should have anticipated being at the receiving end of a blatant rejection, should’ve considered how much it would hurt. Then again, if he’d known he’d be consumed by Sherlock as much, would he have had the strength and the will to walk away? Turned his back from all that is Sherlock? He thought not. Not when Sherlock remains the best thing to have ever happened in his life. Not when he still considers Sherlock the greatest man to ever walk the Earth, spectacularly ignorant and git he might be. It didn’t even count that he hurt John.

 

John sighed depreciatively.  Things have already gone and passed. The dice has rolled. The ball has been thrown at the other side of the court. He shouldn’t be thinking about this, not when he was on a date—with Gregory Lestrade of all people. Greg deserves better and John owed it to himself to make the damnest effort to get past this particular dilemma.

 

“What do you want out of this, Greg?” John asked, eyes gravely catching the Detective Inspector’s chestnut orbs. He immediately felt guilty for ruining the mood. He saw how the other man’s awkward smiled twitched, vanished then re-emerged crooked and strained. John was surprisingly having a pleasant time. Greg has been charming and polite, courteous even. ‘ _But_ ,’ John mused, it’s especially _because_ it’s Greg that they must have this conversation. They couldn’t skirt around it forever and if their friendship even mattered at all, then they’d have to swallow the bad parts and swallow the thorns.

 

Greg seemed taken aback, not expecting John to ask the question so soon in this new facet of their relationship they were trying.

 

“You.” Greg answered unerringly after he swallowed a mouthful of his wine, eyes staring steadily and boldly at John. John found the reddening of the Detective Inspector’s ears attractive in a very unexpected way.  It was kind of sweet. Had he known before that Greg could be a charming man? John mimicked the swallowing.  He hadn’t really noticed anyone else since he started dating Sherlock— ** _when_** he dated Sherlock. He never truly paid attention to other people. Sherlock had been his world. _Still is_.

 

It wasn’t an answer John expected from Gregory Lestrade.

 

“I… I’m flattered.” John stammered, and then blinked, losing his train of thoughts.

 

“ ** _And_**?” Greg prompted patiently, like the detective he was, certain that he could draw more facts from the suspect.

 

John pursed his lips, suddenly becoming self conscious of what he was about to say. This whole new dating thing was suddenly foreign to him. How does one even _normally_ date someone? Needless to say, Sherlock was special. Moran didn’t count. Thinking about it, he had never dated anyone he would consider successfully other than Sherlock Holmes. While it was the D.I. Greg Lestrade who asked him out, John was fairly certain that laying out the dirty baggage wouldn’t go amiss especially when they were both friends from the start. They were friends, right? John rubbed a hand tiredly over his face. Regardless of the circumstances or maybe because of it, they ought to have a decent conversation regarding the arrangement of their dating. What to expect from the other and all… After all, Greg wouldn’t get much out of this deal. That had been apparent from the get go.

 

Greg’s eyes shifted sideways—embarrassed but determined. ‘Summoning his resolve’, John deduced from the other man.

 

‘Help me out here, John,” he whispered, “I carefully used ‘and’ when we both know you were going to say ‘but’. I know you still think about Sherlock…” Greg shook his head, correcting something that was at the forefront of his mind then looked John in the eyes, “that you’re still in love with him.”

 

“I am.” John exhaled truthfully. He had after all decided to be honest with what it was he was starting with Greg.

 

“I’m not asking for your hand in marriage, John.” Greg elaborated.

 

John gave a small nod.

 

“Not yet anyway,” Greg continued solemnly.

 

John sputtered inelegantly.

 

He looked up with flushed ears to see that Greg was grinning boyishly at him.

 

“You tosser!” John grumbled half heartedly and threw a crumpled napkin at the other man.

 

Greg let out a hearty chuckle and brushed a hand in the air. “Well, that broke the ice a bit.”

 

“Indeed.” John answered dryly.

 

The Detective Inspector gave a low hum. “As I was saying, I know your baggage—at least some of it. If you’re willing to date someone whose time is already swamped by children and police work—if you’re willing  to take chances at all, then I’d say I see no problem.”

 

John thought about Sherlock and the Work and how we wasn’t bothered about their previous dynamic where he was often times only getting small portions of the man’s time… But he supposed it didn’t count much when John had been integrated with the Work itself as well.

 

“I’d just be using you, then.” John laid out the ugly truth.

 

“And I’d be taking advantage,” Greg answered softly, solidly. “Yet here I am, unashamedly asking you to go out with me when you were just heartbroken and vulnerable.”

 

John let out a snort. “I’m hardly vulnerable, Greg.”

 

“Well, in a manner of speaking,” Greg feigned seriously before grinning widely upon seeing John’s frown.

 

“I’m not even sure I can forget about Sherlock,” John stated, his voice a little hoarse. “I tried.”

 

“I know,” Greg said confidently and seemingly unbothered. John was fairly certain that the other man was thinking about John’s indecent display with one Sebastian Moran out on the streets of a crime scene. “And I know that the attempts failed but you haven’t tried it with me _yet_ , and all I’m saying is that I’m willing to take the chances with you.”

 

John groaned. **Chances.** Hadn’t John been dealing with chances a little too often in his life more than what was healthy?

 

“You’re my friend, Greg.” It was grasping for an excuse verging on desperate yet it was also what truly mattered at the heart of it all.

 

“Try it with me.”

 

John frowned.

 

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

 

John’s frown deepened. He bit his lower lips then sighed frustratingly.

 

“I’m dead certain I won’t regret anything of this, too. I won’t regret you, I mean.” John sincerely didn’t know where all this awkward honesty was coming from. Greg was oddly bold.

 

“I consider you my friend, Greg. I’ve been at the receiving end of a rejection. I’m telling you, it will tear you apart. Go out with someone who isn’t pinning for someone else, someone who doesn’t hold a candle for someone who isn’t you.”

 

“I have gone through a messy divorce, John.” Greg reasoned. “I’m hardly a _virgin_ about this kind of thing.” The edge of the detective’s lips twitched. It trembled from what was a blatant effort to repress a grin from the humor co-notated with the word virgin.

 

John’s lips broke to a full smile, unbidden. Greg was ridiculous and, god, wasn’t John being serious here for once? There was a heartbeat of a pause then they both broke to a helpless laughter as they caught how silly the other looked. This was silly. John felt refreshed. The thing was, he hadn’t expected to have a good laugh out of this night and Greg proved to be an enjoyable companion. There were tendrils of hope starting to blossom. It was the desperate desire to finally emerge from the gloomy prison, to finally latch at something and heave himself off the muddy dig site. It was desperate and bland but wasn’t the hand being freely given?

 

It was probably the laugh, or the smile, or the awkward grin as the other man blushes. John felt something in him broke and it should’ve been impossible when he was already broken from the start but with the broken pieces further splintering to dusts, John felt himself truly want to start to let go.

 

It wasn’t just a conscious decision. It was as if the pendulum started gaining pace again.

 

And it didn’t matter if the swaying was kind of crooked.

 

He answered with a breath and vehemently pushed back the thoughts that plagued his mind screaming how John had been in Greg’s position when he started things with Sherlock Holmes.

**Author's Note:**

> Am thanking Nofavrell for the beta ^^ and the consistent reminder to do the remaining chaps as quickly as possible.
> 
>  
> 
> A companion Image set for FAULT LINES was crafted by Nofavrell and I love her works. I encourage you to try the link and see.^^ Thank you.
> 
> **[NOFAVRELL's FAULT LINES pics](http://archiveofourown.org/works/801542/chapters/1510410?page=1&show_comments=true#comment_3192172) **


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